Red Hair Black Heart
by Little-Firestar84
Summary: Post season 3 finale AU. In the aftermath of Red John's apparent end, past and present are revealed to be connected in a way almost unexplicable. Patrick Jane is about to discover the true evil behind Red John, and a world he never knew existed.
1. Prologue

**Title: **Red Hair, Black Heart  
><strong>Artist<strong>: **aprilvolition**  
><strong>Link to art:<strong>see my Journal  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> +34.300  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T (to be on the safe side)  
><strong>Summary<strong>: The past: a man, trying to rebuild his life; two boys, with no love, born only to be exploited, and two teenagers, stars in their own way in the carnie. Today: a doctor of many things, trying to make up for his mistakes; the most notorious serial killer in California's history; a young man, made cynical by life; a professional stuntman, no longer under the spotlights; a former psych, now a consultant for the CBI, looking for vengeance. Patrick Jane is about to discover the true evil behind Red John, and a world he never knew existed.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> sadly, neither The Mentalist nor Marvel's Characters belong to me, although I'm writing fanfics about the both of them from years... what's mine it's the plot, though.  
>Notes: First of my two Mentalist Big Bang Fanfic; X-Over with the Marvel Universe, no knowledge needed.<p>

Storie's un-beated, so, all misatkes are mine. Many thanks to **aprilvolition** for providing the amazing art and the last sentence of the summary.

* * *

><p><em><span>Somewhere in California, on one of Red John's crime scene. Timeline Unknown.<span>_

Her name was Samantha Driscoll, now she is no more, she is a cold, dead body inside a black bag, hidden inside the morgue of her town. Looking at her home and at her body, it's easy understanding how she died- murder – and it's even easier understanding who did it, someone who, in the last decade or so, has gone with the name "Red John". Nobody knows who this man could be, nobody got closer to have real info about his whereabouts, if not at the cost of their own lives. Or so it's supposed to be, so it is believed. Because, someone, does – not that the uniformed cop put at the gates of the home of the now late Samantha Driscoll is aware of that.

He doesn't know; for him, Red John is as much of an enigma as he is for the rest of the Police Force of California. That's why, when he sees a gentleman, probably in his fifties, approaching along with a younger man, of Asiatic origins, he stops them; he is mad, young Agent Carver, and annoyed and angry. Bad enough he has been left all alone watching an empty place, but to do so when said place is surrounded by noisy curious, perverts, journalist or whatever the two are, is even worse. He'd like to be everywhere but here, especially on the night of the big football finale, but here he is. And, at least, he'll not be annoyed by stupid idiots.

"You two, there's a reason for the tape, so move and leave if you don't want to spend the night somewhere fresher, I'm not gonna say it twice!"

The gentleman, though, is deaf to the words; he smiles, nice, good, sweet, like an older man would do, not bothered, not even a little, by the harsh tone. He simply deepens his smile once they are eye in the eye, and waves his hand in front of the cop, murmuring words in a language the guard doesn't understand, doesn't know. He just knows that they feel like honey and a caress and his grandmother's pie. They remember him of something old, something ancient, something lost, long gone and forgotten. A bit like the mysterious gentleman.

Carver simply shakes his head, looking around, unable to see something different from before, finding himself alone yet again. Nobody is there. Or so he thinks, because, right before his eyes, the gentleman is still there, smiling satisfied, but not evil, definitely not evil, gesturing to the Asiatic man and to someone hidden in the shadows to join him inside.

"You can join us now, young Megan. He can't see us, there's nothing to fear for you."

And, as her teacher told her to, young Megan follows the orders. She leaves the shadows she was hidden into, this strange creature. She is young, just a teenager, clad in denim jeans and a leather bright yellow motor jacket, long purple curls dancing in the breeze of the ocean. She walks carefully, scared of being spotted, but once in front of the guard, she stops, almost daring him to see her, looking into his eyes. And he sees everything, this Agent Carter, everything but them.

"Doctor, you should have allowed me to do this. You said so yourself, you no longer possess the power you once had, and it's critical that you keep your strength for the final battle. This man, he was just a mortal, I could easily did it on my own."

"Yes. In fact, we just need a pouting child sending a police officer into a trip." The Asiatic man doesn't even turn to look at the girl, he keeps walking behind the so-called doctor, who's grinning, smiling, barely resisting laughing – his friend, he isn't being sarcastic. He is serious.

"How dare you, mortal! I order you to show the proper respect to the daughter of Oberon and Titania, lords of Avalon and faeries and all things magic!"

"You are not Titania and Oberon's daughter." He just says, deadpan, calmly.

"Yeah, well, but I'm still faery royalty!" She pauses, a finger under her chin, the girl lost in thought. She is almost positive she is, indeed, Avalon royalty. But her mother could have easily lied once again about her real heritage. That's life for Megan- nothing is sure, never, ever.

"Your father is a common human." He deadpans, yet again, still as calm as before.

"My father is one of the most powerful psychs of the planet!" She replies, anger awaken yet again in her, even if she is not sure who she is supposed to be mad with: the man who's making fun of her, or her mother, who lied to her own life? For all she knows, she may have just lied once again, and Jason Wynegarde – or whatever he got by at the time he met her mother – may really not be her real father. Just because she somehow shares a particular version of his gift with him and his other progeny, it doesn't mean anything….

"Your father is, actually, a psychic and a felon, with world-domination tendencies"

She just crosses her arms, pouting like he told her she is used to do, and walks behind him, walks behind the doctor. She knows she can't answer in any way to his last statement, a complete truth, whenever she likes it or not (because if Wynegarde is really her father, he is, indeed, a felon with world-domination tendencies), but it doesn't mean she is going to let it go completely, not because of the subject, but because of the one who brought this up. She doesn't like him like he doesn't like her- he doesn't even like the doctor, and they know each other from a lifetime. The fact that he is right doesn't mean she can't say something about something else.

"You know, I can't even begin to understand why the doctor keeps you around. That's not the way you are supposed to behave with him, or with me, for what it matters. You just always complains and complains, and never shout up. If you don't like us, why bothering getting along?"

"As you just said so wisely, _young Megan, _it's up to the doctor to decided whatever I'm still allowed in his presence or not, and not you. And the reason he keep me around, as I think he already mentioned more than once to you, it's that I speak my mind. Doesn't matter that he doesn't listen to me, like when I told him not to take in an apprentice." He smirks knowingly at the girl, sure that she'll get the message, already foretasting her reaction. His hope is that one day she'll get tired of this bantering and will come back from wherever she comes from, Avalon or no Avalon. Hopefully.

"I'm gonna tell the doctor that you showed disrespect to me once again! You are…awful!"

"Now, now, children, why don't you behave? At least out of respect for poor Miss Driscoll." He keeps smiling, the man called, or at least known, only as "the Doctor", and he keeps using that voice, soft, tender, like silk, like a caress, like the one of a wise and old man, an affectionate one. A bit like a grandfather with his grandchildren.

"You may try to put an end to our quarrel, Doctor, but at the end of the day, you know I'm right. Like I was when I told you to not get involved in things you didn't belong to. If you'd listened to me, you'd still be Sorcerer Supreme of this plane of existence, and we'd not have to be here right now to solve this problem."

"Uhm, Doctor, are you finally going to let me in in that huge secret of yours? Because, I know the whole thing of power and responsibility and that with a great power comes a great responsibility and etc., etc., but, shouldn't we, you know, deal with more…supernatural stuff? I know this guy is a monster and he is all evil all over, but, you are the one who's always telling me that the world is full of dark forces, of things mortals can't or don't want to understand. Shouldn't we take _that_ weight upon our shoulders and go fighting the good fight against everything that's dark and evil and magical all over?"

**_Who says it's not exactly what you are doing right now, girly girl? _**The half mortal, half faery frowns, shuddering with fear, cold sweat on her whole body, looking around, searching for the voice, for the one who just spoke. And she is the only one- the two men remain impassible, the Doctor just lifts an eyebrow a bit quizzically, but he doesn't care too much. There are other things he needs to take care of right now, and contemplating the bloody smiley is one of them. He just skims over the surface, still sticky.

He cuts the rest of the world out. Everything, including the ball of fire suddenly appearing like from thin air- a view that makes the young girl scream, makes her run to hide behind her mentor, to the Asiatic man's slight amusement - like from thin air appears what replaces the ball. A man, way younger than the Doctor, but older than Megan, not so old to be her father, though, jeans, leather jacket, a shirt left partly unbuttoned, enough to reveal the point of a tattoo on the smooth chest, shining red hair, brilliant like with the reflexes of fire itself.

And a trident, golden, shiny, flaming, in his hand.

"You see girly girl, Doc here feels slightly guilty, since he used to be Sorcerer Supreme and all that jazz. By the way, Doc, I like the new look just fine. Nice knowing I'm not the only one who put some sense into that head of his and donned the cape"

"I thought you knew, my young friend, than I'm no longer allowed to be near the Cape of levitation, now that I'm Sorcerer Supreme no more." There's a slight grin of his face, tainted by something else, though, something dark, but all traces of humor disappear from his face when he turns, and looks straight into the eyes of the younger man, who spots a strange look, one that's of amusement, but like he knew a secret, like he knew something will turn the other man's world upside down. "Daimon Hellstorm, my young friend, I assumed you didn't like to waste your time with my kind. Would you mind explaining me why calling this sudden meeting?"

"I may be slightly younger than you, Stephen, but I'm not stupid, whatever my ex wife states." Hands in his pockets, trident gone, vanished in the same thin air his owner appeared from, "Daimon" drops the grin as soon as he approaches the smiley face printed in crimson blood on the wall, skimming over it from afar, rigid and tense, his eyes turning dark, almost black, a light smell of smoke filling the nostrils of the ones around him, rage, guilt and regret filling the atmosphere all around them. "As soon as I learnt of this, I knew what it was we are facing."

The Doctor closes his eyes, breathing in, deeply, head low, eyes facing the pavement. He knows now, without any form of doubt. He has thought about it, looked at it from every possible angle, and now he is sure, now that even Hellstorm is confirming his suspicions. Because if there's someone who knows what they are talking about, that's Daimon Hellstorm. "He did it, Strange, Blackheart did it."

"He doesn't walk the world of mortals with that name anymore, and even his proselytes know who he used to be in another life, Daimon. The one we called Blackheart is now…"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know it, Doc, he likes to call himself Red John nowadays, to step out from his predecessor's shadow, am I right?" he laughs, dark, sarcastic, with a subtle vein of evil, no regret, no fear in his voice. What he is telling it's what he thinks. And he isn't ashamed of it, he never is. "Face it, Doc, when I told you there was no way you could save that boy by simply taking him in and raising him as your own, you should have listened to me. I told you he had been too long with those psychos to still have a piece of soul left, he was into that too deep. I told you he no longer was Timothy Carter, they made sure to erase that part of him, and you decided to take away from him Blackheart as well. And now, he is fighting to take that back…" He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, suddenly serious. There's an hint of something in his voice, and Stephen Strange has to admit it's way too close to fear, and if Daimon Hellstorm is scared of this, of Blackheart… it means they are in troubles, and deep, because arrogant jackass that he is, Daimon Hellstorm never met fear before. "I gave a look at the records, and I'm sure that he made just few of the homicides attributed to him. The ones he did, though, they form an image, something I saw in the Vishanti Book a long time ago, back when I was just a student of the occult. He is recreating an alchemic symbol, the sigil of Ishbar, one used in another world and in another time to create the philosophical stone through the souls and blood of the inhabitants of the nation of Ishbar. It's said that, after that, the power of the sigil was embodied with the dark energy the souls released in their agony, and whenever and wherever the symbol is drawn yet again through a blood sacrifice, those energies answer to the call, opening up a gate. It is said that when the next sigil will be completed, the gates of Hell will be opened, and the end of days will come. That's what he is trying to do, Doc, he is trying to bring the end of days to get his daddy's attention because he feels bloody neglected."

They remain at each other's side for a long while, engulfed in pure silence, not a breath disturbing them, not a sound, not even from the outside, and when the Doctor breaks the silence, he makes so with a thundering voice, low but yet strong, powerful, dominating, accusation clear in his tone, no trace of the good old man he seemed until few minutes before. "I wonder, Hellstorm, how you knew what you were supposed to look for. I wonder how you could possibly be aware of the events taking place here, and the reason I'm doing so, is that, from what I remember of our previous encounters, you never cared in such a deep way about humanity in general, considering my kind unworthy of your otherwise wasted time… you never bothered yourself with such problems before, why starting now?"

"Bah, I know what angle you are trying to work, Doc, and I'm telling you, he didn't contact me, haven't heard of Timmy boy in years, actually. Blame this one on my sis. You know her, she has never been the smartest in the pack, always forgetting to turn on the brain first before acting. Anyway, few days ago, she came to me and spilled her gut about something one of her lover boys told her about while she has him at her mercy, and honestly, I highly doubt she actually knew what she was talking about. Or maybe she was. You knew dear old her, she has always been such a daddy's little girl, fully committed to that kind of stuff. Definitely not dear old me…"

"So it wasn't you. You sister told you what you were supposed to look for…"

"Yep, as soon as dear old sis was gone, I started to connect the dots, and here it comes, right before my eyes, the sigil of Ishbar, prelude to hell on Earth if you do everything as you are supposed to do. And, unfortunately, he is doing everything as he is supposed to."

"Uhm, but he has made mistakes. He has gotten to enjoy so much his power over the living ones that he has to kill. He no longer is killing merely for the purpose of ending the rituals… his victims count is so high, never as high as Ishbar itself, but high nevertheless, too high for the ritual only. Killing is something that fills his existence, he keeps doing it even if he shouldn't, even if it isn't necessary for his purpose. But he still goes on, and it means that he'll soon make a mistake. For all we know, he could already have made one. Maybe there's no reason to get worried about him, maybe we'll not even have to get involved at all…"

Hellstorm grins, keep grinning, dark and evil and scary. Megan, as much as reluctant she is in doing so, can't help but hiding at Wong's back, shivers running through her whole being, body and soul, as she keeps looking from the corner of her eyes at the man, a man who looks a lot like one of the creatures he just described, a child of Hell himself, beautiful but evil and lethal.

"Oh, I'll not count on it. many of the murders attributed to Red John were made by mere acolytes, proselytes, while others were meant to distract both the police and us. This face? Just to mess with the police's heads, and because he didn't want for us to connect this new Red John persona to Blackheart and Timothy Carter. Let's face it, if one of his guys hadn't spilled everything to sis while going at it, we would still be in the woods." He clenches his fits, eyes closed, his voice a low hiss, spectral, feral and scary. But suddenly serious, and… scared. And sad, all together. "He is Blackheart, Stephen, he is the son of the devil. He can't be killed nor imprisoned by men. We have to get involved, like it or not. It's our responsibility. We made a mistake years ago, and now we have to face the consequences, and pay the price."

"I agree with you, but be assured that I still don't regret my choices. I'd do the same, all over again, because, unlikely you, I treasure any human life, and son of devil or not, he was just a human kid back then, and if there's someone who should have showed some empathy for that poor innocent soul, that's you." Stephen pauses, turning to face Hellstorm, decision in his voice, but sadness as well. The mistake was his. And all the death Blackheart brought into the world is his fault as well, another reason many others were worthier than him to hold the title of Sorcerer Supreme. "But I have to reluctantly agree with you. We have to get involved, if we don't want this dimension to cease to exist under the devil's onslaught. Do I reckon you have a plan, my old friend?"

"I may or may not have a couple of people involved in the investigation, working angles from the inside of this unit having the case. You listen to me, there's always some good in having a wolf between the sheep, posing as one of their own." The grin, appeared suddenly, as suddenly vanishes, and the young man turns back to be serious, a weird contrast between his unorthodox style and his seriousness, that makes him look like a way older man. "We need people from the inside to catch him before he could bring Hell on earth, Doc, and we have to save as many humans as we can. I know what you think of me, but I'm no longer the same man I used to be. I learned to treasure human life after I lost Patsy because of my own doing, and I'll not allow anyone else to go get lost like she did. Especially because of a mistake I did when I was younger and more naïve. We both were." He turns, his back to Stephen and the bloody wall, hands casually in his pockets yet again. "Besides, I'm definitely not in the mood for another meeting with the Devil…"

He leaves then, slowly walking away, back into the warm Californian night, letting them on their own, to decide if it could really be that wise, getting involved in a fight between light and darkness, if taking action right now of it is already too late and there's only damage control let to do.

He stops and stares once outside, taking a big breath as the magnificent view of the sky, slightly illuminated by a silver full moon, amazes him as nothing ever did before, with the exclusion of the first time he lied eyes on Patsy, and, with total nonchalance, he steals a cigarette from the guard, young Agent Carver, still like in trance.

"You know, sometimes I wonder if those Jane and Frey were aware that what they were saying was true, that Timmy boy was just a poor, rejected and unloved soul… what do you say? No? Yep, I do too. I mean, the woman said the guy could love, but if the only things the devil loves are sin and himself, the same goes for his children, and, modesty apart, I'm quite the expert in this field." He laughs, almost demonically, Carvel still in trance, and throws the cigarette on the soil, turning it off with a foot.

As he walks away, the breeze lifts in the air his now fully unbuttoned shirt, revealing on the skin behind the fabric a sign, a mark, something that could be either a scar or a tattoo.

It may not be clear what it is exactly, but it's clear what it represents: a pentacle, one of the most powerful signs of magic and paranormal forces working beyond normal human comprehension


	2. Chapter One

See previous chapter

* * *

><p><em><span>Sacramento County Jail, June 2011<span>_

It is only one day after the end of the world as he has knew for too long that Patrick Jane finally understands what feeling all right, being relieved, could mean, almost a whole day to process that the world has, indeed, started to turn for him yet again, that he is no more frozen in the past, standing in front of a door with a note and butchered bodies inside with a smiley face of blood on the wall.

But it's not just that. It's not just because the nightmare is over. It's because she is there, sitting in front of him in the visiting room of the jail. But it doesn't matter where they are. It only matters that Lisbon is there, with him, alive and well, even if, from time to time, she barely touches her injured shoulder, but he knows, he sees the signs in her. It's not that bed, and anyway, she'll get better in no time. Everything will be well, in due time.

They stay in silence, a silence not dramatic, but somehow comfortable, like they were used to it (and maybe they are), just his intake of breath breaking it.

She is not only OK like she told him over the phone. She is fine and well and safe. With him. Like, somehow, him as well.

She can feel them, his eyes, curious and smiling and full of mischief, burning a path over her body, studying her, carefully, looking for a confirmation, of his whishes, of reality or of his fears, she doesn't know, and maybe she doesn't want to.

She blushes under his scrutiny, and what had started like something comfortable soon turns into the exact opposite, at least for her. She feels the needs to break the silence, to talk, start a conversation, any conversation, just because she isn't sure she'll be able to keep it up, if the man will not stop staring at her soon. Or at least, he could drop the smirk. The smirk, that smirk on Patrick Jane, can be rather annoying. Like him. And annoying isn't the only thing Patrick Jane can be and, considered the recent events, definitely is. Because what he did, more or less proves that she has been right about him from the start, from day two (on day one she had felt generous, and had given him the benefit of doubt).

"Well, I guess I got a little carried away, and, I'd say scared. And it looked like there was a lot of blood, but, really, it was nothing, I mean, the bullet just gazed me, I didn't even need stiches, just a couple of Bands-Aid…" she rambles non-stop, and waves it away with a complete nonchalance, a nonchalance she is far from feeling in reality, but that she doesn't want to allow him to see. The truth is, she got scared, and a lot. She can't forget the terrible pain, running through her like an electrical shock and liquid fire, and the pool of blood she was found by the medics, a pool of blood apparently coming from nowhere, but that forensic attributed to her… unexplainable, because if that was her blood, she should have been dead, but instead, she is there, with no memory of what happened but well… one minute, she was at the phone with Jane, the next, she was passing out. And when she regained consciousness, it was to Van Pelt's falls of red hair tickling her nose, the younger agent kneeling at her side, putting pressure on the wound all the while silently crying, but motionless and whispering at low voice, like in shock. Perfectly understandable, since the "rookie" had just shot dead her soon to be husband.

That's' what scares her, this confusion, and the fact that she doesn't have a bloody idea of how she is supposed to feel towards this unpleasant situation, a situation getting more and more unpleasant by the minute, and, if she knows Jane- which, by the way, she does, maybe even too well for her own taste and good – it's just a matter of seconds before everything could escalate.

Oh, well, it's now or never. Time to break the ice, brave little soldier….

"Jane, listen, there are been new developments in your case…"

"Really?" she clenches her teeth, barely resisting the urge to hit with her fist the metal table just to make the bastard understand what he isn't supposed to do or say, what he shouldn't say at all. And grinning at her with those oh, so charming eyes is definitely something he shouldn't do if he takes in good consideration the fact that he is still alive. He should be glad that they took her gun away when she entered, otherwise, he'd be running for his life instead of grinning, the bastard idiot.

She lifts her eyebrows at him, barely resisting rolling her eyes out of frustration and grunting at loud. And doing few other things, like grabbing him for the collar and give him a good old fashioned scroll. She is so mad with him, so annoyed by his stupid and childish behavior, by his nonchalance on the whole thing, that there's a tiny, little part of her that's incredibly sadistically happy about the news she has to deliver.

Well, almost. After all, the whole universe is aware of her soft spot for the unruly consultant, and Jane is, well, Jane. Maybe she'll just tell him to go to Hell and take a toothbrush. Or sheep deep.

"You see, Jane, the fact is… you'll be released tomorrow morning."

He smiles at her, of a sad but honest and gentle smile, and takes her hands in his big ones, caressing her soft skin with his thumbs, making her blush, making her fight to free her hands, to break the connection with his eyes, but she can't. There's just something so… magnetic about his eyes, especially now, that she feels he is going to be completely open, and honest, now that he feels, somehow… free.

That tiny, little part of her is gone.

"Lisbon, look at me, and listen. I'm flattered that you are willingly to put aside your principles and to lie for me, but there's no need to, I don't want to, ok? Let me alone to fight this battle, let me do this on my own, please, don't get involved more than you already are." He stops, takes a big breath, and looks at her, her breath dead in her throat, time stilled and teary eyes. She doesn't know if she should hate him or hug him and never let it go of this man. "Lisbon, I know we discussed this more than once, and I know you feel guilty because you knew and weren't able to stop me, but, hear me out: there's no need. It pains me, knowing that I broke our trust and the promise to never hurt you and be there to save you, but it was to be done, and by me and me alone. That's why I'll stay in front of the judge, the jury and the DA admitting what I did, I don't care about the consequences for me. He was a monster, he killed and tortured the only people I truly cared back then because of my own words. I was the one starting it and I ended it, killing him in cold blood. He paid, not how I wanted to make him pay, but he paid nevertheless, and the world is free from a mass murderer."

"Patrick…" she calls him with his first name, searching for his eyes, somehow it feels right, one of the few occasions it actually feels right doing so. "Patrick, listen to me, you didn't."

His grips becomes tighter, warm of him opposite to cold metal of the table under their arms. Many thoughts pass through her mind. She wonders why he is holding her, because he has never been so physical with her, never before. Is it just a friendly thing, or does she have to see something romantic beyond his actions? Or is he simply relieved that… for something? Because she is, relieved, and she is sure he is as well. But, probably, not for her same reason.

"I'm glad you aren't hurting because of me, Lisbon. I knew that you were going to understand why I needed to do it." His smile, and his intake of breath, breaks her heart, scattering it in millions of tiny little pieces. She was right: he is, indeed, relieved. And definitely not for the same reason she is as well.

"Jane, what I mean is that… you didn't make it" He looks at her, confused. She can't stand his eyes, not right now, has to look away, regain that composure she has lost over the last few days.

"I can't… doctors wasted their times saving him instead of, I don't know, a mother, or… a scientist that could have cured cancer? They… he shouldn't be alive! It's just… it's not…"

She simply shakes her head in a silent no. The actual word never leaves her lips, there's no need to.

"After you shoot, in the general commotion, the police got to you first, and there was people running everywhere, even around the body, and… he just walked away, Jane." _Literally, _she'd like to add, but she doesn't. It's not the right time to try to lift the air and brighten the mood.

"Stop being delusional, Lisbon, I killed him, and I'm taking full responsibility, I told you." He lets it go of her hands abruptly, and faces Lisbon, voice hard, strong, eyes void, just crazy and evil. That's Patrick Jane when he deals with Red John, Patrick Jane at his worst. Her friend, someone she deeply cares for, someone she doesn't recognize any longer. Not in these moments, at least.

"I'll show you the footages if you don't believe me" Crazy eyes meet tender, translucent and hurt ones, eyes that have never been able to hide from him. And that's when he gulps, revelation clear in his eyes like an Epiphany on his way to Damascus.

She is telling the truth. Red John is still at large, alive, out of their reach once again, once again one step in front of him, of them.

"But…"

She takes his hands again, and this time she is the one initiating the contact and holding him, the one looking for his eyes. "Jane, listen, he probably was prepared, he probably had a vest on him…"

"But I saw it, Lisbon! I saw the blood! I shot him dead and he was bleeding from his heart! I shot him, he started bleeding, and then he fell on the ground! I saw it, Lisbon, I was there, I looked at him dying with my own eyes!"

"I know, Jane, I saw the footage, and I think he may have faked it, just to mess with you, let you believe you've lost your mind. The vest probably avoided any damage, but couldn't absorb the impact, you know how vests work, and… I don't know, maybe it was the impact, maybe he really fell, maybe he was into shock, or maybe he just faked it right from the start. All I know is that there's this image of him, getting up and walking away like nothing happened while everyone was either running or focusing on you."

Suddenly, he frees his hands from her gasp, and starts walks frantically all across the room, pacing, red eyes focused on the soil, wide open, breathing and heartbeat erratic, the maniac he is when Red John is concerned, what he hoped he wasn't going to be any longer. Self-punishment isn't over for him yet. Maybe, it will never be.

She hides her face under the cascade of her dark, long hair, scared, trying to avoid looking at him, her heart falling into, yet again, millions of tiny little pieces. And what is hilarious is that she isn't scared of what he could do to her. She is scared for him, feels, yet again, the need to pull him out of his misery, the darkness enveloping him, her, self-proclaimed savior of all things Jane.

"It's not right, Lisbon, it can't be right, you are wrong…." He stops, and turns to look at her, those eyes, that look, the same she saw so many years before, a night, into the home of a man who was supposed to protect the law but was the son of a killer and the helper of Red John, a man who almost killed her and that Jane shoot dead before he could end her life short… she remembers it, the day Jane killed Sheriff Hardy to save her, the night he killed his only link to Red John to keep her safe, the day he chose life over vengeance, over death. She wonders if he would do the same again. "**_IT'S NOT TRUE!_**"

"Yes, yes Jane, it is, it's the truth…" She literally jumps from her seat, and is the one pacing, running, running to him, taking him in her arms, both kneeling on the cold pavement of the jail, her hands on his shoulders, chin, face, back, knees, hair… everything to make him look at her, to make him see the truth, and to bring him back with her, in the here and now, to try to bring him out of the darkness, the punishment he casted upon himself a long time before, the night everything changed, turning him from the man he once was to the one he is right now, and not the one he can be, the one she takes glances of every now and then. "Jane, listen to me. Because of you and O'Laughlin, we have a name, Timothy Carter, and a face. Forensic is searching his own place. We're checking every place he could be, collecting info about his past whereabouts. We're close, Jane, as close as we've never been before, and I know we are going to stop him, this time it's the right time. We're are going to make it, all of us, together, me, you, the team…." She starts to cry. That has never been her intention, and at first, she doesn't even realizes she is the one doing it. When she feels the moisture wetting her face, actually, she is quite stunned. But not that much. It's not the first time she is crying over Jane, for Jane. "Soon, very soon, he'll have a needle up into his arm. I swear, Jane, we'll catch him, together, and we'll help deliver justice and you'll finally be free. Its' a promise, ok? Please, promise that you'll help me keeping this one, I'm begging you…"

He just nods, not adding anything furthermore, and she smiles, smiles of a sad smiles tainted by her tears. She barely resists the urge to kiss his forehead, run her fingers through his damn blond curls like he was a lost child. Even if he does seem like a lost little child. Maybe, deep down, he is .

"You'll be released in few hours time, at worst tomorrow morning… it may take a little longer because, even if you shot at him because he was trying to escape, you did so with an unregistered weapon, so I guess there could be people trying to teach you a lesson, and you don't know how much I'd love to be one of them, because I agree with them up to a certain point, even if…"

"Breath, Lisbon, in and out, like I thought you to…" he smiles, of a sad smile, but it's a smile nevertheless, and a start, as good as any. After all, it's not the first time he fakes, he puts on a mask, and it's better than the broken man, the crazy lunatic she has faced until a moment ago. She just nods, tears, now silent, wetting his shirt. He hugs her, holding her for few instants in his arms, her hands on his chest, warm of her palm through the fabric of his clothes, his around her waist, pressing her against him, and it's not awkward, it's warm and familiar and nice, like refreshing breeze coming from the ocean, nothing like all the other times they have hugged for this or that reason, it's just like… like that time she was fighting to find her mind back, when Carmen framed her for murder, and all he wanted to do was making her feel better and get better himself in the process. "I'll see you soon, woman."

She frees herself from his embrace, blushing, making him forget for a while everything that is going on, the grin on his face at her reaction worth everything and some more.

Just few hours, and he'll be once again a free man. Just few hours, and the hunt will start once again … and this time, it will end. For real.


	3. Chapter Two

Disclaimers and notes: see chapter one

* * *

><p>It's quite late in the afternoon, and not early morning when, jacket of his grey suit in hand, Jane strolls with a smirk and a mischievous light in his eyes out of the penitentiary, already foretasting what's to come, the final battle. He has an hunch, that the circle is going to close around Red John, that with the help of the team, this time around he'll make it, find him and make him pay, taking a life for the two the killer has robbed him of, and all the other who he has taken along in the process of making the life of so many people miserable.<p>

Besides, everything will be easier now. He has seen her eyes, Lisbon's soft gaze, and now he knows. She is empathizing with him, she understands him, at some level. He knows she'll still be hurt when everything will be said and done, but it will not be as painful as he thought at the start of his quest, because, somehow, right now they are almost on the same page. Now he knows- maybe, deep down she'll not agree with his method, but she'll understand, in some ways, and she'll not hate him. Not as much as she would have at the beginning of their partnership or when he told her about his plan for the murderer, at least.

His smiles reaches his eyebrows when he sees the Citroen parked right there. Only one person could have the courage to actually drive that "trap on wheels", and that person is Teresa Lisbon. Besides, even if she'll not admit it, not even in a court of law, she loves the car, is quite fond it, and she thinks it's sexy in an old fashioned way, even sexier that those fancy and flashy sports cars Mashburn used to drive her around back in the days of their short-lived affair.

That's probably why she is hiding somewhere. Poor woman, being ashamed of him noticing how much she loves the "deadly contraption"…

"Oh, Lisbon, how nice of you to bring me my beloved car! Now, tell me, are you planning of keeping insulting her? Because, trust me, if she allowed you to drive her, it's because she likes you as much as you like her, and…." The breath dies in his throat, and all he can do is stop and stare at the unbelievable picture in front of him, for it's not Teresa Lisbon approaching him with quick steps from a corner of the penitentiary, cigarette in hand ready to be lighted , nor any other member of the team. It's someone he knows, though, someone he hasn't seen in almost twenty years, a man who was still a boy last time they saw each other, back when the carnie was the world they both belonged to, together with their girlfriends, Angela and Roxanne, and their fathers.

The man smirks, still the arrogant, leather and denim clothed, jackass he used to be back when they both were merely 18, he smirks of an arrogance Jane had too, but lost once tragedy touched him in that faithful night, but not this man, not him, maybe because, once upon a time, he was everything Jane wished to be but wasn't, he was richer, more famous, always under the spotlight, and not the little psych from California, but he was travelling with his own truck all over the world, staying years at time in Vegas with his own number, one named after himself, a real celebrity, and not a class B like the fake psych used to be.

The man smirks, but the smile isn't fully sincere, doesn't reach his eyes, and it's when Jane sees it, a shadow behind the happiness, probably fake anyway, the hint of a broken soul, all things, signals Jane knows too well, recognizes from his own experience, all lines tracing his own skin after that faithful night of almost a decade before.

"Johnny?" Jane wonders if he is the one who spoke, because the voice who spoke was so low, he isn't sure he recognized it at all, it seems alien, coming from a place that's not inside his own body.

"Johnny Blaze at your personal service, Paddy!" Blaze smiles, all the while patting Jane on the shoulders, in a friendly but yet manly way, almost forcing him inside the passenger seat of the Citroen. Jane frowns, obviously at uneasy with this sudden new development, by how weird it feels not being the one driving his own car, and yes, by his long lost friend's behavior and presence.

He can see Johnny is nervous, looking over his own shoulders, checking his surroundings, like to spot someone looking for them, following them. He doesn't like, he doesn't like it because he remembers being young with Jonny, he remembers the young man he used to be, one always looking for troubles even when troubles weren't there, a man who loved complications and danger and risking willingly his neck, his old number being the first evidence of this. He can see him, getting in troubles still now, with the wrong people, especially after the spotlight abandoned him and Johnny Blaze has suddenly turned into an absolute nobody, just another man fighting to arrive at the end of the month.

"C'mon, let's go, I'll bring you back to your motel" Jane sees it, Johnny checking his surroundings one last time, and then entering the car, clenching and unclenching his fists on the wheel, his knuckles turned white for the effort, breathing erratic, dilated pupils, not in need or want but in fear and desperation.

What did his friend do this time? Is it really that bad? And why coming now, of all the times, to him for help? He knows another one would talk about coincidences, but Patrick Jane is a firm believer of the theory that everything is connected and happens for a reason… so, it's no coincidence Johnny's appearance after he shot Red John. Is the killer connected to this man? Is that another little game or what? If that's the case…. He finds himself wondering how feeling about this. Being relieved because the killer made a move he shouldn't have made, making Jane closer to him than in a long time, or is it dangerous, having him so close, trusting a person Jane himself trusted once upon a time, testament of how he could touch and transform in rotten beings everyone the killer lies hands onto?

They drive away from the prison. Slowly, Johnny's hands moving with grace on the wheel and the change, almost like an hypnotic dance, beautiful, but definitely wrong. Because Patrick Jane knows Jonny Blaze, and Blaze never did slow, wasn't the kind of man, he hated slow, but still… here he is, driving slowly in the half-empty Sacramento Streets, not so slow to retrieve attention or suspicions but slow enough to awake something in Jane. Besides, he keeps checking the cars following them in the mirrors, and that means the world. It means he has been right: Johnny is in trouble, probably with the worst kind of people, the ones you shouldn't want to get involved with, the ones you don't want to get mad at you.

Is it the leverage Red John used on him? Or, simply, there's nothing about it, and Johnny just appeared out of the blue to put him out of his misery and get something in exchange for being nice?

He changes road, shifts a bit from the usual, and keeps checking, exhaling an irritated breath when he gets a good glance of what he is looking for; at his side, Jane merely frowns, uncomfortable in his own skin like he hasn't been in a long time- probably since that time he went undercover to solve the mystery of the dead Santa, or when he had to make that dam video with that cold-blooded and hearted reptile of Erika Flynn.

"You obviously know where my motel is, but yet you are taking a longer road to get there, changing direction every now and then but keeping a slow speed, which, let me tell you, it's unlike your usual behavior, and few minutes ago you started driving in circles" Jane states, looking in front of himself, still in shock- for the facts of the last few days, or what is happening right now, he isn't sure. "We've been followed" Johnny doesn't answer, nor nods, but his body language is screaming for him, telling Patrick Jane everything he needs to know and more. "Uhm I hope you didn't get in troubles with mobsters in Vegas. Heard you had a number outside one of those big casinos…"

"Hate to break it to you Blondie, but contrary to common belief I'm not the one who's a magnet for troubles."

Jane grins, a part of him delighted by the way his "friend" is feeling. He has been, after all, the one at uneasy not long before, it's just right that Johnny could get to feel it as well. "I think it's the charming personality. People loves me, I'm kind of… mesmerizing, we can say."

"I'd dare to call you even hypnotic"

"Nice one, I like it" they pause, and look around, sides, front, back, everywhere. "So… am I wrong if I assume this is related to me shooting Red John?"

"You got close only because he wanted to, and he wanted to only because the endgame is getting closer and closer. He knew he'd have survived, and wanted to make you suffer, and awaken the seed of doubt into your very soul."

"Why do you claim the endgame is near? Does he want to kill me? Does he really want to leave the killing scene as he claimed? And how can you know all of this? Unless you are part of the conspiracy, of course… but I highly doubt it. I know you, Johnny, and I'm a good judge of character. My guts tell me you have nothing to do with him…"

"I have everything to do with him" he whispers, more like talking aloud to himself. Jane, though, he isn't scared nor worried by the last statement. He knows like others may read it, but he doesn't see that way. Johnny isn't helping Red John, there's more to it than it meets the eyes, there's something hidden behind the veil he has yet to uncover, a truth that, he knows, will be stunning. And he is quite sure it will help him in getting closer to Red John himself.

"And what it is, this everything you have to do with him? You are not one of his minions, of that much I'm sure. This only can mean you are, for some reason, after him. The question is, why? I don't think it's because of me. Of course we were friends, but our relationship was one that brought benefits to each of us. We were friends because it had its benefits, not because we particularly liked each other, that we got along pretty well was just an added bonus. I had the charm, you had the bikes. I had the look, you had the personality. Together we were a perfect magnet for girls, the rest didn't count, so, at the cost of being trite, you aren't doing this because of me or because of Angela. I highly doubt you are somehow connected to some other victim, otherwise I'd known, because believe me, I know everything there is to know about Red John" he changes, like he has changed so many times in the past, the happy go lucky man leaving place to the beast, thirsty for blood and death. But Johnny doesn't seem impressed by this all, nor scared. He keeps driving, barely sending glances in the direction of the man he used to call a friend a long time before.

"You know Paddy, as much as it probably breaks you, you are not the center of the universe. Not everything people does is because of you or to gain your precious attention. There are few billions of other human beings out there, each one of them would die to get my help in a situation such as this one you get yourself into, so, if you feel the need to say please or thank you, make me the favor of listening to that tiny little voice in that thick skull of yours and, for once in your life, act according to it.."

"Are you telling me you are some kind of…. Urban super-hero? Someone like Batman, reborn in the aftermath of his parents' killing? Did the shock of your father's death turned you into some kind of… revenger? I knew you were upset because security wasn't enough compared to how dangerous the number was, but he is the only one to blame, and you know it. Going around looking for someone else to put the blame into, trying to hurt people, getting yourself into troubles… listen to me, Johnny, it's not worth it. It's wrong. And dangerous."

Johnny doesn't answer, even if Jane believes that the man hissed something at low voice, whispering words he has never heard before between his teeth (he understands just something, the word "strange" and something close to "demon", but he isn't sure), and just stops. And Jane's heart loses a beat when he suddenly realizes where they are, that they are parking in the exact spot he parks almost every night he isn't sleeping at the CBI. This isn't good, this is dangerous, maybe even too much. He loves traps and endgames, and sometimes, very often, actually, he improvises to get what he wants, but this…. this is a move he didn't see coming. Maybe he wasn't looking so well at it. Or maybe.. maybe he has simply been wrong, and Johnny really is helping the murderer.

"With all due respect, I think it could be seen as dangerous coming here, to my motel, if someone connected to Red John is really after me as it seems, even following us. Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment, but as much as I love my suits I don' t need them all the time. Rally, I can make it without them for a couple of days, maybe even more. If- sorry, allow me to rephrase that, _since _there's a serial killer with huge connections after us, don't you think we should try to evade him instead of waiting for him at open arms? Because I don't have a plan yet, and I don't feel like improvising. Unless you have some idea I'm not aware of yet and Lisbon and the team figured everything out and are waiting for them for a secret team-meeting outside the walls of the rotten CBI ..." a pregnant pause, nothing is said while they leave the car, faking a calmness they are both far from feeling, Jane first, everything getting more and more complicated by the second. "I assume that your silence means that you don't have a plan and Lisbon isn't involved at all."

"Lisbon? You mean the hot chick, brunette, huge emerald eyes, the one who's attacked to you by the hips?" Johnny stops halfway to the room, his eyes falling to the wristwatch on his right pulse. Lines of worries appear suddenly on his forehead, almost transmutating his features, and a curse is whispered between his teeth, followed by a quick Sign of the Cross- something that make Jane stop and stare, something so strange, something so different from the young man he knew back in the day. The just probably both grew up in something entirely different, even if back them none of them knew what faith was like. "Damn, we took too long to get here. It's almost the sunset…. We have just few minutes left and they are almost here"

"What? I thought you didn't have a plan!" they don't exactly run, but the last few steps are made in a hurry, Johnny pushing with crude force and rudely Jane with an hand on the small of his back, almost making him fall on the old carpet of the entrance once the door to the Spartan living arrangement is opened. "Johnny, what the hell are you up to? You said you didn't have a plan, but your reference to timing seems to differ…" as he talks, he follows Johnny, pacing for the room, busy securing every corner from prying eyes. Doors are locked, blinds turned shout, nothing is left to the case as sunset quickly approaches. "Jonny, if you have a plan, I'd like to know it so that I could make something about it…."

"You want to know what you can do? Ok, I'll tell you what you can do: stay here while I go in the other room. Don't pull one of your stunts, just keeps the lights off, stall and keep your eyes closed until I tell you otherwise." He is pushed into the main room, the metallic sound of the lock closing behind Johnny, and all Jane can do is sitting in the dark, on the edge of the bed, sweating palms on his pants and pulse and breathing erratic. He knows, he can feels it. whatever will happen, it will not be just another step into the right direction… whatever it will happen this night, it will be the beginning of the end.

His time has almost come. He can foretaste revenge on his tongue, the bittersweet taste as strong as never before.

One minute, three. Five. Maybe ten. Or even more. He doesn't know. In the dark, with just the sound of the outside traffic, it's hard to tell exactly how long it has been, and it's even harden considered the emotional turmoil Jane finds himself feeling at the moment. He has always been a sort of prisoner of his own mind, but never the statement has been as true as it is right now, when all he can see and feel and hear it's Red John, his voice, his face, his own hate and need for revenge…

It's the cold metal of a gun against his skull to awake him from his reverie- Lisbon has ben right all along. Revenge isn't healthy, that's what thinking about killing Red John did, he, Patrick Jane, almighty mentalist, missed something as small as the presence of another human being in his room, a human being he was even waiting for. That's what thinking about Red John is doing. It's getting him killed.

He stands and turns, hands up, in surrender, no words, the gun still cold against his blond curls. LaRoche on the other side of the gun, ready to pull the trigger, ready to kill him, grinning, evil. The man with the small, white dog. He has always knew there was something sick about it, something wrong. Now he knows. LaRoche is a mole if not _the mole - _ and a murderer and a traitor, that's what is wrong with this man. Not the perfect image of efficiency like Bertram likes to picture him.

"I'm sorry Mister Jane, but, as fond as we all are of you, we can't allow you to interfere further more into our Master's planes. I'm sorry to say playtime is over."

The use of the plural doesn't go unnoticed, is the first thing Jane's brain registers, maybe even before fully comprehend there's LaRoche actually pointing a gun at him. Plural. It means, like they have always feared, _he _has always feared, that Red John doesn't just take allies randomly, every now and there, but that he has a network, fully operative, and that there's a bigger conspiracy hidden behind his secrets and his lies and deceptions. He remembers another motel room, this time in Mexico, words written on a wall with the blood of a dying man, the same hands that tried to tell them. _He is Man. _Many. Was that what Jared Renfrew meant, what he tried to share with his last breath? That Red John doesn't just have followers, but an entire network, people working actively with him as partners in crime? Or, did he meant that the killer has way too much followers, almost a small army? Will he ever know? If the cold metal of the gun against his skin is of any indication, he doubts it.

"Let him go" Johnny's words echo in the room. Jane gulps, aware that he has almost forgotten the presence of the old friend. A friend who's in danger because of him, because he played doctor with a psychopath. If Johnny doesn't have a plan… if Johnny doesn't have a plan, it will be over for both of them, and he'll have destroyed yet another life.

"Let. Him. Go" Johnny repeats, his voice firm, strong, fearless and demanding. _Run_, Jane would tell him, _go looking for help, call someone, call Lisbon_, but he can't, doesn't seem able to perform a single syllable. All he can do is concentrating on the here and now, on the gun pointed right at his forehead, between his eyes, at LaRoche grinning like an evil maniac, at the fact that it's end, an yet again he is going to turn into empty promises so many things he said… revenging his family, saving Lisbon… nothing is going to matter, soon it will be over. Soon he'll be dead. It's not as easy as he thought, and he isn't like it at all. He isn't ready as he always claimed to be.

He wants to live, for so many reasons, some still unknown to him but already there, waiting to be faced and accepted, and he didn't even know until now.

"Oh, look who's here, what a fortunate coincidence that I come to visit you as soon as I heard that you were out of prison, Mister Jane. How sad that your friend here managed to kill you before I could actually do something to help you… but at least, while he was escaping and refusing to cooperate with us, I shoot and killed him, preventing him for hurting any other poor soul out there. We just should be glad no bystanders got injured in the process…"

Johnny grins, shaking his head, if in disbelief or simply to say no, it's hard to tell, and walks, slowly, calm, towards the mole, like nothing was happening at all. "I'm going to give you one last chance. Let him go. In exchange, I'll be merciful, and I'll make it quick and as painless as possible."

LaRoche chuckles, and Jane shivers, as scared as never before for his own life, wondering in what mess he got himself into, how he managed to find himself sandwiched between LaRoche, one of Red John's friends, maybe even his right hand, and Johnny, who, according to his words, sounds like a crazy killer himself, a revenger like Jane himself would be, even for different reasons- maybe not even a reason at all.

He shivers, eyes closed like Johnny asked him to, almost ordered him to, the metal of the gun colder against his skin, like a thorn, LaRoche definitely not in the process of letting him go as Johnny is asking to. Johnny. There's no Lisbon around to save him, ready to get him out of troubles. Only Johnny, Johnny, who's actually making things worse.

LaRoche simply laughs. "You? I'm sorry, Mister…Blaze, is it? You are nothing but a stuntman, almost forgotten. Do you honestly have it in you to save your friend? Or yourself, for what it matters…."

It's Johnny's time to chuckles. "First, I was a performer, not a stuntmen, there's a huge difference, and I just have to snap my fingers to get my number back in Vegas, so, forgotten? I don't think so. Not that I care so much, considering that riding a bike on a stage isn't exactly a job, but only the way I make money to live…"

"I'm sorry, Mister Blaze, but somehow I don't care about your job or your pastimes. I do know, thought, that after you lost your number in Vegas and your precious wife and children, you fell victim to depression, and that's why you killed Mister Jane here. I've been told you used to be friends a long time ago, when he claimed to be a psych. You run the same circles, and you believed him. You asked him to help you, you wanted to talk with your beautiful wife one last time to ask for her advice, because, let's face it, she was the reasonable one, right? But he refused, told you he was just a fraud, and that's why you lost it… " At closed eyes, Jane is even more aware of his surroundings, at least, for what concerns the sounds all around him. He hears everything ten times louder, the secure being discharged, the trigger being pulled. He doesn't feel the gunshot, only hears it, but it's different from the times Lisbon or someone from the team fires a bullet. He has looked at Lisbon practicing more than once, and he recognizes few sounds. Right now, he heard a gasp, then metal on the pavement, falling, and then the bullet. He heard it, but didn't feel it. LaRoche not only missed his target, but he let the gun fall. And the bullet didn't hit him.

"You should have cared about me more" says a voice coming from Jane's back. It sounds like Johnny, but at the same time it doesn't, it's close but distant as well, human but metallic, almost… he heard once, a man without vocal cords, using a stimulator, and the sound… it's that but it's not at the same time, it's everything and nothing he has ever heard in his whole life, like something beyond comprehension, and it's not just a weird sound, it's something… it's plain scary, it's something that makes him shiver, makes him wish to pray for the first time in his whole life, something scarier than the sound of bullets hitting him, and he knows. He knows what needs to be done.

Going against Johnny's orders, Jane opens his eyes, because he has to see it on his own, he needs to understand, and to know. He needs to know if this is just a byproduct of his mind, elaborating a bullet going through his brain and trying to process new nervous connections.

He slowly and tentatively does it, hands still up in the air in surrender, and the first thing Jane sees it's him, LaRoche, cuddled in a corner, in silence, shaking like a kid in his room late at night, scared of the dark and of the weird sounds. But he can read LaRoche now, and LaRoche isn't only scared. He is terrified. Of what exactly, Jane wonders? He focuses on his surroundings, asking if the voice scared the investigator as mush as it scared himself, and then, when everything is covered in darkness and silence, he feels it, at his back, burning, hot, covering the room with a tiny veil of light, just where Johnny was, or maybe still is.

He turns, even if the voice asks, terrified, not to, and that's when he sees it, or maybe him, Jane isn't sure, he has never faced anything like that…. Something….real, dressed with Johnny's signatures clothes, the ones he was wearing few minutes before, and… it's real. And it's a burning, living, talking and walking skeleton, dressed with his friend's clothes.

"Paddy?" the skeleton comes closer and closer, so close their noses are almost touching, and while Jane keeps gulping, somehow aware this isn't just another carnie trick, he, or maybe it, waves an hand in front of the consultant, still in shock.

The only thing Jane is sure of is that he'll never laugh at Van Pelt's beliefs, nor he'll make fun of Lisbon's faith. Nope, never again, not after… after whatever it is that this thing is walked past him. Well, close to him, at least. He is even starting to seriously consider the possibility that psychs could actually exist. But only for few a matter of seconds. Maybe, deep, deep, deep down there's a very rational explanation to everything that's going on.

Or maybe not.

Light engulfs the mass of dry and stark white bones, and suddenly the skeleton is no more, and where there were bones and fire, here there is, once again, Johnny Blaze, fully human, once again like he used to be, a man like any other and not… whatever it was, or it is. "Paddy? Oh My God, are you all right? Are you seeing something? What are you seeing?" He asks, frantically, shaking Jane for the shoulders.

"Uhm… I'd say I'm seeing you, but I'm rather sure I'm losing my mind, so I believe I should think carefully about my answer, because I'm not exactly sure it's really you I'm looking at right now… just, out of curiosity… am I dead? Because, you know… you… that thing… it looked like… some kind of… " he turns around, like to inspection the room to carefully see nobody is there, like he is ashamed of what he is going to say. "like… _a demon" _he hisses at low voice, gulping and blushing, ashamed of his own theory, something that, though, is safer that the other one, the possibility that he could be actually ready to join Sophie Miller once again in her office to talk about his mental health. Not exactly something he'd look forward to in any occasion, this one included.

"Nothing else, nothing besides me?" he asks, looking carefully at Jane, almost… inspecting him, studying him.

"Uhm… my room, and… dear old J.J. who's scared to death and cuddled in a corner. Which, by the way, is probably one of the scariest things I've ever witnessed. And I've seen a lot."

"Are you sure you aren't witnessing all your mistakes, your sins and evil actions, that you are not facing the Door of the underworld to be send to eternal damnation?".

"Oh, well, that… everything I've done is always harassing me, like a constant reminder of my mistakes, but… I don't re-live them. I remember them… they are… you know… memories… is that… what you mean?."

Johnny laughs and exhales a breath at the same time, allowing himself the luxury of falling on the carpet, out of relief, and keeps looking at Jane, keeps laughing, like a nervous laugh, and points a finger to his former friend "Well, count yourself lucky, Mister, what happened to you, isn't usual routine for the likes of me."

"So…I guess… it's normal to… end up like… him and…unusual to… be…you know, like me? Like me right now, I mean…"

He paces the room, the "biker", running a hand through his short brown hair, his gaze shifting from Jane to LaRoche. "Yeah, uhm, sorry, I didn't mean to look at you, it's just that, I hadn't turned the vengeful stare off yet, and I know I told you to keep your eyes closed, and, well, I thought it was going to take longer to get him…" he stops to look at LaRoche, once and for all, and he exhales a big breath, running now the hand over his face, tired, but mostly… Jane would dare to say he is worried. "Damn, I didn't think it could work that well on a human being…. I'll have to call in for back-up if we want to try to bring him in to question your boss about Carter's whereabouts…."

"Yeah, yeah, sure…" Jane frantically walks across the motel room, eyes on the pavement, lost in silence, lost in his own world. Suddenly, he stops, and lifting his chin, his eyes look for Johnny's ones. "Johnny, what the hell just happened here?"

Blaze chuckles, once, and then smirks. " Paddy, my friend, you can't imagine how right your choice of words has just been, in some kind of twisted way…."


	4. Chapter Three

Disclaimers and notes: see chapter one

* * *

><p>Jane is closed in the bathroom, busy seriously considering the possibility of throwing up, when he hears a knock at the door. He doesn't move, though, he can't, doesn't have the strength to, nor he feels like doing so (and besides, there's Johnny. And it's probably for the stuntman anyway, he said he was calling and waiting for back-up). He simply collapses on the pavement, his back against the cold bathtub, feeling the icy porcelain through the texture of his white shirt, shivering, glad to be able to feel.<p>

He feels. It means he is still alive, that LaRoche didn't put one between his eyes. But, on the other side… On the other side, there's a part of him that's not so relieved by the fact he is still alive. Because it means it's all true: the secret identity of Johnny, or whatever it is, his powers, or whatever they are, the man he used to know so well looking like a demon, Red John, raising the stake in their little game of cat and mouse, the game itself, on the verge of ending, if what's going on is of any indication.

He runs his hands through his hair and cups his face in frustration. There's simply too much to consider, too many variables, too many things he isn't aware of yet, too many questions he needs answered to but that he can't voice them, not yet at least. For example… has Johnny been such a cartoon super-powered being his whole life, or did he got these powers after they parted ways, when Johnny escaped the carnie at his father, a survivor of cancer who fell victim to his own number, died tragically? And how did he get these powers to begin with? How did they work? And why did he choose to get somehow involved with Red John to begin with? He said something about others, some kind of back-up… are those ones the real reason? And why are they involved? He seriously hopes it's not some kind of battle between crazy elements of the society.

Or maybe he is the one getting crazy and he should just take the Band-Aid off and call Sophie Miller telling her he needs her help once again and that this time he'll be serious and a good boy, not like the other time, when he faked a good part of his healing. Good woman, he should have listened to her, not just pretended it. Maybe, if he had been honest, if he had tried to do as she had asked him to, right now…

Voices in the other room murmur something, but he doesn't pay too attention, the words enter in his mind and then just leave, like they have never been there to begin with. There's no place for them in his memory palace right now, right now the palace if filled with questions and assumptions and dangerous and crazy and absurd thoughts, something definitely the "old" Patrick Jane has never been too fond of.

He takes a big breath, and starts counting, hoping that it will help him to calm down a little. He doesn't think so, though. He isn't exactly fond of being held at gunpoint, isn't fond of guns in general. Every time he has to deal with one, he is in shock for days, and this time he has gone that close to the point of no return. As much as he craves revenge… it will take a while. And it's not good. He hates not being at the top of his game.

A muffled sound interrupts his musing, like a… like a phone ringing, close. It's not the one near his bed, because, let's face it, he never bothered giving that number to anyone, not to tell about his sort of living arrangements (even if Lisbon may have managed to learnt of it in the last few days). No one knows he is there, everybody thinks he spends his nights and days inside that attic of the CBI- which is almost true.

The phone rings again, and again, and again, until… until, finally, _finally_, he is fully awake, and he sees it. His jacket, discharged inelegantly on the small carpet right in front of him, the same carpet where he was kneeling until a couple of minutes before, fighting nausea and a serious need to throw up the prison food he had eat at breakfast… Right. His mind and his body start to cooperate, letting him know and remember things, like the fact that last time he had actually put food into his stomach has been at breakfast, and that he had taken the jacket with him in the bathroom because he was cold. He was cold because he was in shock. He still _is _in shock.

The phone rings again, and he finally remembers that he is supposed to answer it, and it's with utter relief that he reads the name on the screen, _Lisbon-mobile. _Finally something, or rather, someone, normal. Probably the only fully functional and normal human being in his whole life, Teresa Lisbon, not Cho, stoic and unable to show his true emotions (and sometimes even his colors, if you don't know how to look carefully at his well studied facade), not Rigsby, still troubled by his youth, divided between hating his father and being there for him and tormented by his upraising, not Grace, with a secret so dark and huge she doesn't trust anyone with it, unable to fully commit, to make her mind up about what she really wants. Lisbon. Lisbon, who tells him how she feels, tells him if she is mad or sad or depressed, and allows herself the luxury of looking for comfort from time to time in his arms, like any good friend would do, Lisbon, who shared and still shares the nightmare her past has been, divided between love for her family and hate for what it has turned into… he smiles, glassy eyes (not that he would ever admit that) when he finally reaches his mobile and says a simple word, one of his favorite. "Lisbon?"

There's silence in the other side for a while, and he can hear her sobbing and trying to control her breathing. He can imagine her, either scared or fuming because she didn't find him outside the prison. Maybe she is both. Actually, he is quite sure she is both fuming and scared. "_What the hell are you doing, Jane? Why are you not at the penitentiary? I told you I was coming! What are you planning? I swear to God, if you went on your own looking for Red John and kept something from me, this time I'll personally kick your ass outside the CBI right into next year!"_

He smiles. He was right- she is both fuming and scared -for him, not because of him, for once. "I'm in my motel room, Lisbon. Actually, I think you should come over…."

_"Jane, tell me you didn't hypnotize someone to get a lift... or to convince some poor taxy driver to bring you there for free… I thought I had been clear when I told you that hypnotizing people isn't…"_

"Why, Lisbon, I'm such a charmer that I don't need to hypnotize beautiful women to get a lift, and you should know it. You are the one always driving me around, after all, don't you?" He smirks, and he is quite sure she is blushing at the other end of the phone, he just knows it, because he knows her and he knows how she is when flattered. Even if, this time, he has just been completely honest, too bad she can't believe him, not yet, at least, but who knows, maybe, one day... "Actually, Lisbon, an old friend of mine, from my old carnie days, showed up outside the prison. I thought he had heard about, you know, me shooting a man in front of thousands of witnesses, but… I think it's slightly more complicated than that…."

He hears her taking a big breath, and he can sees her, surrounded by a cloak of darkness, running an hand through rebellious dark curls. He almost smiles at the image. Knowing her, she is probably going through all worst case scenarios right now, seeing another Danny Ruskin trying to get back to him for what he has said and done in another life. _"Ok, I get it, you are in troubles. We are coming in." _she says, resolute, but somehow… resigned, like this could actually be the only possible outcome when Patrick Jane is involved. Kind of like Murphy's law, only, with Jane instead of Murphy himself. Whoever they guy was or is.

The line goes dead, and he just stares like an idiot at the phone in front if him, holding it like a somehow foreign object, like the mobile itself could explain him what she exactly meant with her words. "….What?" he asks at loud, hoping for answers from who knows who, still staring in disbelief at the phone. And then… he sees it, an image he has seen like millions of times in the last 8 years or so, Lisbon relaxing the muscles on her neck, interlacing her fingers making her knuckles snap, preparing her shoulders working the knots, and then….

**_"CBI! STAND STILL AND HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!" _** Right, the scream, the door falling under her vigorous thrust, such an unbelievable force in such a tiny body, and sometimes gunshots. He just hopes she'll not fire her weapon- the landlord will already have his head for the door, he'd rather prefer not enraging that sick and twisted little man furthermore. Unless it's Lisbon asking for his head first. Which is not unlikely, considered how she sounded over the phone. Or maybe Cho. He can see Cho trying to rip his head off.

"LISBON!" he screams, tip-toeing outside the room, hands up in mock surrender just in case, quickly but yet carefully checking the main room before daring to actually stepping out of his hiding corner- a bullet between his eyes isn't something he is looking forward to.

And that's when she sees her, standing still, in shock, pointing a gun at Johnny, Cho and Rigsby at two other men, a fifty something elegant gentleman and a younger red hair man, while he can hear sobbing, a young girl he'd say, coming from a corner he can't see, a spot probably at Lisbon's back, the same direction Van Pelt is looking at. Lisbon… she is staring at LaRoche, still curled in the same corner, still like in trance. He feels like she'll put the blame on him for this.

"JANE!" she hisses between closed teeth, quickly turning her face to give him a once-over, and at the same time the ok. Obviously, she thought, still thinks, he is some kind of prisoner. AND she is mad, very, very mad, on the verge of tears and firing at something or better yet someone kind of mad. The kind of mad that doesn't allow him to say a single sentence or actually end the ones he tries desperately to pronounce. "What the hell is going on? And why LaRoche is there, in trance? What did I tell you about hypnosis? Just… are you able or not to connect your brain before doing something? Oh, wait, don't answer that, you obviously don't, otherwise we'd never be in this mess to begin with! But no, you have to go and do as you please, because you are golden boy Patrick Jane and you…"

"LISBON!" he screams, and that awakes her attention- and stops her non-stop tongue from indulging furthermore in insults. He cleans his voice, and than, like nothing happened at all, he starts talking, going at the same time closer and closer to her until he is at her side, and, while holding her gaze, Lisbon blushing, he carefully takes the gun away from her hand. She doesn't even try to stop him, she simply blushes and holds his gaze. Johnny must be right, his eyes are hypnotic.

She lowers her weapon allowing him to take it, and, assured, Cho and Rigsby do the same, but still staying vigil, eyes focused on the men, staying in silence, hands at their hips.

"Good. Now, Lisbon, calm down and listen to me carefully. As strange as it may be, you are between friends here. Johnny, my friend from the carnie days, saved my life. He has been the one saving me from LaRoche."

"LaRoche?"

He nods, offering her the gun back, and looking in her green eyes as she put it back in the holster at her hip; only every now and then her eyes fly from Jane to LaRoche to the trio- and the purple-haired girl Jane recently saw at Lisbon's back, who has finally stopped crying but is still clearly upset. "Apparently, the secret I was supposed be aware of was that he was working with or for Red John." A pregnant pause, and she gulps, seeing something deep, a bit scared, tense. She knows the Jane working the Red John cases, and she hates him, is actually scared of him. And she hates being scared of Patrick Jane, because she knows him, knows his potential. Life's not fair, definitely. "Lisbon, LaRoche tried to shot me dead. Johnny was the one who stopped him, but please, don't ask me how…."

"He damned his soul, condemning him to see right before his eyes all his sins and his mistakes, allowing his body to still live. He'll be here and he'll not be here yet at the same time until his dying breath, awake but yet never present, ever again." the red head man says, his voice low, sensual, but strong and sure as well, somehow hard, all the while getting closer and closer, hands casually in his pockets, cat-like movements, Lisbon ready to take again her gun out, ready to react if he'll dare to step any closer. Which he does, but, unlikely what she thought, when he gets in front of her he merely takes her hand in his one, removing it from the holster, and he kisses the back, like the perfect gentleman. "You must be Agent Teresa Lisbon. I guess we can say I'm a fan of your work on the Red John case…and these must be your people, your… team."

She quickly takes possession once again of her hand, and looks at the man, not any longer staring, mesmerized by his charms and his looks, but actually studying him, like the perfect investigator she is. There's something…. unsetting about this very man, she doesn't know exactly what. It's like she has seen him, or someone like him, but she can't put the finger to when or where or who they were. She just know there's danger involved, and she likes it lesser and lesser. And the fact that Red John, according to Jane, is involved, it only makes things further worse. "I want to know what's going on, and I want to know right now" she turns to look at Jane, holding his gaze. She doesn't look at him like she really is mad and furious or scared, but she meets his eyes in the only way she knows he'll never back up. She looks hurt, betrayed, and scared. She knows he'll never deny her anything, not when she is like that, not when, in her eyes, there's still a shadow of memories of what happened just few days before, when he abandoned and betrayed her to go after his nemesis, putting her life at risk, in the line of fire. Literally. "Jane, look at me. what's going on? Please, don't lie, ok? We are… I am your family, and I want to help, I need to help at least you. Please, just, please, don't lie and be honest for once…" she barely resist the urge to cry, and he knows, he understands every single word she just said, because, even if he tells her otherwise, he doesn't merely read her. He knows her. He knows how being unable to help and save her family almost destroyed her, how broken she felt, and here she is, begging him to not hurt her furthermore, to allow her to save at least her surrogate family, at least what can be still saved.

"My name, ladies and gentlemen, is Stephen Strange, I'm a Doctor of many things, an healer of the body and of the soul, among my many talents." the dark, tall and handsome gentleman says, getting closer but not daring to kiss her hand like the redhead did. "The young girl you scared, her name is Megan, I took upon me the weight of teaching her responsibility and everything that will make her better, while those men, they are my associates, Daimon Hellstorm, expert in theology despite his appearance and his manners" he indicates with his hand the man at his left, the redhead, who grins, and Lisbon stares, this time in disbelief. There's nothing about this man, charming and ruggedly and devilish handsome that could actually suggest that he spent a good part of his life knelt on books about faith and God. "and Jonathan Blaze. Mr. Blaze here… he… had an encounter with… a sort of associate of the man you are hunting, so to say"

"He wasn't an associate, he was his bloody damn father, and he tricked me into accepting his proposal killing my own father in the process!"

"Don't go on any further. Before you tell us more, we have to mirandize you." Cho says, stoic and cold as always- something that, strange enough, makes the Doctor smiles of a bright smile.

"There's no need to, Cho, what they'll tell us, I doubt that it could be explained or used in a court of law" Jane tells them, serious, but… Lisbon isn't sure she has already seen him like that, he seems… scared? It has to be the shock, she tells herself, for Patrick Jane is never scared. "Johnny, what do you mean that Red John's father killed your own? Did he sabotaged the bike or the securities of the show?"

Johnny makes a step towards them, ready to explain, lips already open, but Strange lifts his hand, stopping him on the spot. "You should listen to your friend you all. No one will believe your story, our story, even if there's only truth behind it. But you have to understand, it's a strange world, the one we live in, and humanity has a short memory. What once was common, is now forgotten, labeled as blasphemy by your science…"

"Excuse us, sir, but I don't get your whole point. Nor I understood a single word of what you just said…." Rigsby interrupts him, only to be interrupt by Van Pelt himself.

"He means that there are things that a long time ago were easily accepted and explained like the intervention of supernatural forces, while, with the arrival of modern science, humanity forgot all about them, feeling the compulsory need to explain everything by the means of a rational science instead of a metaphysical one, and juts like that, they forgot, like it had never been there to begin with, just like… a dream, or fantasy. Some sort of fairytale."

"And besides, people gets scared of what they don't understand. You see" Hellstorm starts, again closer, too closer, invading her own personal space. "when Strange here told you I'm an expert in theology, he wasn't quite right. I'm more some kind of an occultist, so to say. Like Doc and Johnny boy here as well, and like dear little Megan is trying to become as well."

"you know what? I think I have the point now. I gather you are all crazy." Rigsby jokes, but his hand as ready as never before on his gun. "Jane, tell them there is no such a thing like psychs. I mean, you don't believe them, right?"

"There's no time for this! Either we made them forget they have been here and have seen us, or we just show them! We don't have the luxury of staying here sucking our thumbs like children!" Lisbon shivers the moment Hellstorm shouts with Strange, his face transfiguring into something entirely different, something that doesn't even seems human… animal fangs and red eyes, blazing and shining of a red light so strong it seems like they are burning out with fire. She takes a couple of steps back, her head soon colliding with Jane's chin, his hands sure on her shoulders, strong and protective, a clear sign that he has every intention of keeping his promise, at least in this installment.


	5. Chapter Four

Disclaimers and notes: see chapter one. and thanks a lot to Lolli, who keeps leaving reviews and pms to let me know where I'm wrong! I'm promising you, I'll work on my issues with English in the future!

A/N- I'm soryy if you are getting another advise for this upload, but something in ff(dot)net didn't work as it was supposed to, and there was no space between paragraphs, making the story not readible... let's hope this is the right time!

* * *

><p>"There's no time for this! Either we made them forget they have been here and have seen us, or we just show them! We don't have the luxury of staying here sucking our thumbs like children!"<p>

"I think you may be right, Daimon. Be prepared" Strange says, closing his eyes and murmuring some words she can't understand, words no one can understand, and light, warm and delicate, engulfs them, blinding them and when they see once again, it's not in Jane's motel room they are, but, in matter of seconds, they ended up… they don't know exactly where they are. The CBI team just looks around themselves, unsettled, seeing the place but not feeling it, hearing things but unable to communicate with who's there. And he place is pretty crowded.

"Where the hell…"

"This is where everything started, Miss Lisbon, this is the beginning of the story, the story of Red John" Daimon says, guiding them across the place, walking through the walls like they weren't real, and when she skims over the supposed cold stone of the lair, Lisbon understands they are, somehow, not. "This is just an illusion, Miss Lisbon, Stephen is merely showing you what happened over 20 years ago, our biggest fault and why, with out own stupidity, we cursed our world, dooming it to destruction."

He keeps walking, and she follows him, Jane at her back, like he could be the one needing protection, and not physically (he knows, it will be his soul that will have to heal thanks to her this time around). They walk, across the old room, like the basement of some extremely old building, some mansion, maybe, crowded by people dressed like priests and nouns, red and black all over the place, praying in front of a boy, not even a teenager yet, reddish hair, and those eyes, Jane freezes when he sees them, remembering them like it happened few instants before. Red John's eyes… the boy is Red John. And then… then, in an hurry, there's an alarm, someone screams, and everybody is trying to escape, one of the high priests try in the confusion to take the child with him, but the boy falls, and then, just like that, here they are; they are twenty years younger, but there's no doubts in any of them, both Lisbon and Jane know that the three they are looking at are Hellstorm, Strange and Johnny. Jane is probably the one more affected, Johnny still the same teenager he left behind all those years back in this sort of vision.

"Where are we… I mean… where…."

"This is Las Vegas, the Sin City, and the place… " Stephen starts, eyes focused on the soil, clearly ashamed. "it's hard to explain, but you see, there was a man, named Sebastian Shaw, he was part of an elite, member of a cult, the Hellfire Club was called. You may have heard of it. In the Old England…"

"In the Old England it gave depraved and sinners and followers of the devil a place where they could find themselves among their equals." Van Pelt interrupts him, shivering, like out of fear. There's something in her eyes, Jane notices, it's like… like she isn't seeing this place for the first time, like she is walking through a memory of her own, one she isn't comfortable with, one she is scared of.

"Well, Sebastian Shaw, he was the descendant of one of those powerful and depraved individuals, and decided to bring back to his old glory the club, and to do so, he started with transporting his birth home from Wales to the world capital of damnation. Once in Vegas, he recruited as many individuals like him as possible, and together they tried to come back into Satan's graces. But they were merely human, not a conduit of power, and the devil wasn't answering them. Not until they offered him something… a virgin woman. Her name was Nadine Carter, and in her veins run the blood of killers and prostitutes and criminals. He accepted the offering, and fathered a child with her, half human, half devil, born to bring destruction upon this world… Timothy Carter."

"That's Red John's real name, Timothy Carter" Jane simply states, trying to skim over the image of the scared boy. He looked almost innocent, and not a freak, a monster, someone born to be a destroyer, who turned exactly into such.

"Man, he seems… he is just a scared little boy… how is it possible for someone like that, turning into such a monster?" Rigsby, dear old teddy bear, Jane wonders if he is the mind-reader, sometimes, always telling people what they are probably thinking, even when they'll be upset by it, and he doesn't keep his mouth shout because he doesn't get it.

"We did it, we turned him into a monster. And we did it by allowing him to live." Daimon closes his eyes, and clenches his fists, firmly, so firmly his fingernails leave angry red mark in his palms, and in front of them… in front of the CBI, the visions… they see, with a gasp of horror, Johnny turning into the Rider, Hellstorm wielding a trident of some unknown energy, and Stephen mastering some form of power through an artifact, and they see them, fighting their way to the child, until the poor boy is on the ground, helpless, everybody around him trying to escape and not caring about him at all. And Daimon, in front of him, trident lifted into the air, ready to hit the child, stopped only by Strange's sudden intervention, shaking his head, no.

"If we allow him to live, you know what it will be, you know what he'll turn into!"

"Are you, of all, trying to tell me you don't know the difference between nature versus nurture? I thought you were a better man, Daimon Hellstorm…" the Rider looks at the child for an instant, then turns to look at them, not saying a word, not mentioning sins or faults or any other thing, and walks away, in direction of the adults, the real sinners in his eyes, without further ado. "as you may see, even the Angel of Vengeance agrees with me. allow me to raise the child as my own, allow me to teach him about power and responsibility. I beg you, Daimon Hellstorm, listen to my pray, and spare this child, an innocent soul into this madness."

Vision-Daimon turns and walks away, as the trident vanishes like in thin air. "There's only so much you can do, Strange. The blood isn't water, and sooner or later, you'll understand it's even truer when it's about the devil's child you are talking about"

And just like that, everything goes blank around them, and they find themselves yet again into Jane's motel room, Strange in front of them, keeping up with the explanations. "I took him with me, hoping that I could… drive him to his highs, make him better, but I was wrong. Timothy never saw me as a mentor or a father… he knew who his real father was, and worshipped him, in secret. I tried to make him forget, going against everything I've always believed in. I brainwashed the child, but… I assume his father had a hold on him stronger than we all expected, and when Tim understood what I had done to him, he escaped to reunite to his blood family, and worship it as only a devil's child could do. And to do so, he thinks there's one way and one way only…"

Light engulfs them again, just to turn into solid in front of them, taking the form of some sigil, the "alchemic circle" of the fables. Only, this one stands over a map, a map where many of the Red John murders are indicated by a pulsing and stronger light, a small fire that unite everything, a circle where just a point is missing to end it all.

"I know those places. Those are few of the locations where Red John..." he moves closer, Patrick Jane, and skims over the drawing of energy making it shudder, disappear and reappear. His voice is broken, low, his eyes cold and distant. He gulps, and somehow, he knows, somehow they all know it. It's the end, the final battle, them or Red John. "But I don't understand… my family's murder, it's not indicated in the map, why? We know it was him, we know it wasn't one of his friends, we know…."

"Not all of his killings have found their rightful place here, mister Jane, because not all the actions of the one you call Red John hide the same meaning. Many of the victims fallen because of his hand, they were merely meant to distract you, they were meant to drive us to the conclusion a simple and human serial killer was behind all of this, when there is nothing more distant from the truth…" he lowers his head, the good doctor, because he is somehow ashamed of what he is saying, feeling like every single one of those deaths were his fault, because he knows that they are, and because he doesn't want to… doesn't want to degrade the other fallen ones, they don't deserve it. Their fate has been bad enough, peace and respect it's the least they deserve now that they are no more.

"I don't understand, what are you trying to tell us? That there is more than one Red John? Is that what you mean, that we are not dealing with one serial killer but more working on tandem?"

"No, agent Lisbon, what my friend here is trying to tell you, is that you are not dealing with just an half-devil, but with his maniac followers as well." Daimon grins, and there's something… like dark humor hidden behind it. Jane can't help but shiver, wondering why is that, what the man is hiding. Because he knows- there's more than it meets the eye with this group of individuals, more than what they are allowing him and the team to see. There is some dark, deep secret involved, something both Daimon Hellstorm and Strange known but are not sharing.

"Listen, I know that he is bad, but, seriously, the Devil? Doesn't psychopathic fit more the job description? Do you seriously think we are going to buy that?"

"With all due respect, Rigsby, but you are seeing what they are doing, and I saw what HE did to LaRoche when the big, bad, bald boss in charge tried to put one in my brain. I don't know about God, but there's definitely the devil himself involved here."

"You believe?" Jane just nods in silence, and Rigsby turns to face Cho, a look of disbelief and a crazy laugh printed on his face, like he couldn't believe himself that Jane could have said something like that. "Man, he believes, that's pretty bad, uh?" he turns, and face the sorcerers. "how bad it is?"

"… Like I was saying before you interrupted me so rudely, the one you knew as Red John, known to the mortal souls like Timothy Carter…."  
>"Aka the guy I tried and failed to murder at the mall…"<p>

"Yes, him, Mister Jane, anyway" Strange pinches the bridge of his nose, a migraine coming. He wonders if, having to deal with this on a daily basis, Agent Lisbon as well feels this way. "Mister Carter is the son of Satan himself, born from a mortal woman and infused with Hell's essence since before he walked the world. But the devil has many children walking the Earth, and as you can very well imagine, he doesn't provide them with love and affection…"

"Like Kristina Frey told. That's why he hurt her, because she knew the truth, had red right through him…."

"He didn't hurt her, he just… he separated her body from her soul, turning her into a sort of Golem. That's why you were able to talk with her spirit. Because she was dead, in a certain sense, and used her own body as a means of transmission. Even if she didn't realize it back then."

"But I'm not a psych, how could have done that since I don't have any kind of powers? Because I don't have powers, right?" maybe, just maybe, psychs do exist. And maybe, just maybe, he is been one of them all along without even knowing it. Right now, Patrick Jane is ready to accept every possibility, this one included. And it shows how desperate he is, how his own worlds has been turned upside down.

"Well, you spoke with her because she wanted to talk with you. Psychs as you folks imagine them doesn't exist. There is no such a thing. Everybody can talk with Ghosts, because it's the ghost that decides if talking or not, if making any contact or staying wherever they are… people doesn't usually listen to them because they just can't bother with losing the time or putting their faith in something, that's all."

"Yes, Ok, you two, we are all glad Jane's theory there is not such a thing as psychs has finally been proved right, but, could we please go on? I reckon Doctor Strange was going to say something important…. And I'd like to hear it before tomorrow, pretty please, if you don't mind." Lisbon hisses. And glares, actually glares, closed fists. That's how much she is irritated. Irritated and, yes, scared, because she may think Jane isn't making any attention to his surroundings, but he does, and he saw her, holding like for dear life her cross whenever she thought he wasn't paying attention.

He'd smile, because it's kind of funny how she still feels kind of ashamed of every reaction she has when around him, because she always has to feel in control and strong whenever he is around, keeping in place her mask of "private stays private" and utterly professional cop. He'd smile, really, if he wasn't so worried and shocked right now about the last few days' events.

"Yes, yes, of course, you see, Red John, whose father called him Blackheart, is trying to get Satan's attention, and to do so, he needs to open the gates of Hell, bringing the End of Days…"

"So, all this death, all these murders, they are what, a ritual to get daddy's attention?"

"Yes, Miss… Van Pelt, right? Yes, they are indeed a ritual. What Blackheart is trying to accomplish, is opening up the gates of Hell by forming the Sigil of Ishbar, the capitol of a long, lost world in another dimension where the door that brings to the truth that alchemy hides was in every human being who had ever existed…. "

"So, you know where he will hit next?"

"Of course we do, Miss van Pelt. And we know even when…"

"Yeah, well, sorry to interrupt you, man, but…" Before Strange could move further on with the planning and the information he and his allies gathered, Rigsby stops him, half-turned towards the man still in the corner, shaking like a frightened little child, their (former?) boss, LaRoche, one of the main characters in the huge conspiracy drawn by Red John's expert hands over the years. "Shouldn't we think first about LaRoche as well? I mean, we can't leave him here, someone will start looking for the guy, and with due respect, we can't go in a tribunal telling them that the info to get Red John came from a couple of sorcerers and a biker. Unless we don't want to end up in some kind of asylum with a nice white shirt…"

"He is right." Cho simply states, calmly, almost cold, and Strange almost smile, hiding it at the last minute behind his teeth, finding quite funny how this Asiatic could look like, at least in behavior, to the one Strange himself knows.

He has a point, though, they all know it, because one thing is following a Jane hunch, another one this one. this is too important, this is too big. And besides, they can't allow LaRoche to walk, not after the betrayal, not after he almost killed one of his own, not after he had a part in framing Hightower and made everything to stop them form finding out the truth about the bloody killer. The truth, or even just a clue.

Strange closes his eyes, a finger to his lips, deep lines appearing on his forehead out of concentration, turning sideway to be face at face with Daimon, who's mirroring the sorcerer's expression, the two of them so caught with each other, lost in their own discussion, to not even notice the others staring at them, the worlds going on. "Well, there was a spell of illumination of the Eye of Agamotto, inside the book of Vishanti, I think it was page 452…"

"Yes, of course, it could give him his mind back, but it's still hard to say what he could deny or admitting, unless we conjure it with a version of the Crimson band of Cyttorak, the one in the Book of Ancient Scrolls… modifying it to bound the will instead of the body, though… maybe adding a bit of the girl's magic dust in the process, to give him some ideas about what he should or shouldn't say."

"I'm normally against mind manipulation, and a long time ago, when I first started abusing my powers, that was the only obstacles I've always refused to jump. BUT… this man is quite dangerous, and I fear his mind and soul are no longer with us, ready to accept peace and salvation, and would he come back, I fear for the ones who will cross his path. No, he has to pay for his wrongs, so this once I'll allow this plan to move further on, and I'll personally give Megan instructions to provide this man with the necessaries information…." He turns towards the others, smirking a little. "Tell me, my friends, do you have something planned for the evening of the day after tomorrow? For the planets are going to be in favor of everyone…"


	6. Chapter Five

Disclaimers and notes: see chapter one. and thanks a lot to Lolli, who keeps leaving reviews and pms to let me know where I'm wrong! I'm promising you, I'll work on my issues with English in the future!

* * *

><p>According to what the Sorcerer says, it's in a rich mansion by the sea that Carter will hit next, a place that, even if rich, transmits beauty and peace. It's something like they have never seen before- not Mashburn's place, huge, void of taste, just an instrument to show to the world his money, a place where, in the last year, she has been once or twice to consume their fling, a relationship made of sweating and quick and hard sex with no feelings involved, a place she is quite happy she is no longer frequenting -probably, stopping calling him back has been the sanest decision she has ever made; he isn't her kind of man anyway, that wasn't much more than sex that isn't even that good and she has better things to do than wasting time with a man who keeps sleeping around, even when he does sleep with her, and has no intention of settling down permanently with one woman for good and even less of temporally turning into a monogamist.<p>

Besides, she has to think about Jane and being there with him when he needs her and when he can't skip out of the darkness on his own. Like now.

She holds his hand once, gun ready yet, and looks at him, sensing how uneasy he is right now, how scared. Scared because of Red John, because of what is going to happen, the endgame finally there for them, after so long, and uneasy because that place may be like nothing that he has never seen before, even dealing with the super-riches and the politics, but it's definitely something that reminds him of his past, another home by the ocean, just few miles north, another beautiful and classy and peaceful home where a family has once been happy and has been later destroyed by the hands of that same monster who's going to try to steal another life, the last one, before finally reaching his ultimate objective, stealing the lives of the whole world.

His family, his home, his house, Red John.

She stops as soon as they are at the door, ajar for when the husband will be back first thing in the morning, back from Paris where he is for work. She regains her composure, her gaze still on Jane even if her orders are for everybody she could order around, her voice a hissed whisper that breaks the silence of the cloudy and silent night. "Rigsby, Cho, search the immediate perimeter. Van pelt, you are inside with me, if we are right, Carter will probably be down the hall, right on top of the stairs from the garage, the first thing the husband will see once back, but I want to know if someone else is inside. There's no trace of Sally Carter, and if she is one of his followers as we believe, they may be together. Jane, you're not to leave my side, ok? We'll leave Strange, Mr. Hellstorm and your friend Johnny do their thing, and we'll get into the action in due time, all right?"

He nods, not too present, and again she takes hold of his hand, looking for his eyes. "Jane, Listen, I'm here, and you are with me, ok? You told me you wanted to give me the chance of taking control of the situation, and that's me, taking control of the situation. Let me at least try, and if you feel like doing something stupid, just take my hand and squeeze it, and remember I'm here to help you out, and not to hurt you. I don't want to hurt you, Jane, but if you'll do something stupid you know I'll have to, right? I'll have to cuff you and arrest you and bring you to jail, and it would break me, and you promised to never break me. And you don't want me to think it was just another broken promise of yours, right?"

He shakes his head in a silent no. He isn't going to break a promise, not this one, can't break another promise he made her. He told her he was always going to save her, but, yet, when O'Laughlin was shooting bullets at her, he wasn't there. He already broke one promise, and broke another one the first time he fired at Carter, breaking a tiny little piece of her heart. He can't end what his blindness, what his thirst for revenge has already started, he will not. Not when it comes to her.

"I can do it. just… let me come. I want to be there. I need to be there." He squeezes her small hand in his bigger one, smiling sad, but grateful, and she nods, reciprocating the smile, eyes almost teary, again feeling the need to make him feel better, to take him in her arms and cover his forehead with kisses and stroke his curls, running her fingers through them.

"Good, let's go." And they move as soon as she says the words, everyone going into position, silently, not daring to talk, to try to communicate, scared of the thousands of possibilities, of all the scenarios, running them all in their minds. This is the end, they know it, something will be over this very night of summer in California. Only, they don't know what yet. It could be simply them. It could be Red John. Or, worse case scenario, it will be the end of the entire human race with the Reign of Heavens and the reign of Hell, the end of everything that it is and will ever be. Such a weight on their shoulders, such a huge weight for Lisbon's tiny shoulders.

At the end, they slowly, silently and carefully walk for less than five minutes, walking across the empty and cold, but loved, home, across memories and hopes, before finally reaching a hall, an open space, quite huge, where a double door at the end of the room makes good show of itself, probably the stairs from the garage they saw on the blueprints and few friends of the family told them about.

And here there is, what they hoped, what they feared to see, and without further encouragement, Jane at her side, almost hiding behind her tiny frame, Lisbon lifts her gun, pointing it at the monster, at the one who, even with human blood running through his veins, a human he will never be.

"Timothy Carter, hands where I can see them, you are under arrest!" The man known like Timothy Carter stops, and stands, leaving the poor woman on the pavement, leaning on the cool marble, already bleeding amply from many, tiny cuts all over her stark white body; he takes a big breath, like exasperated and annoyed, somehow bothered by their very presence, like they were just a minor nuisance, something minor like a fly or a mosquito, and he looks at them, but not exactly mad or crazy, there's something else. They can all see this, even if he is wearing glasses, they can see it through his eyes. He is calm, and quiet, he is like one of those good teachers trying hard to stop a boy to be nosy, he isn't irritated, much more like….slightly bothered. They look into the face of craziness, and craziness looks right at them. And it is scary. As scary as he is his tender smile, one of reassurance, like everything will be all right, everything will be well.

He starts walking towards them, hands in the pockets, calm, reassured. Lisbon keeps pointing her gun at him, but her hands are trembling. She is scared, like everyone of them, like even the mystical ones are, because they are not facing any criminal, and it's not even because this Red John and because she has to keep attention to Jane as well because Red John and Jane just doesn't fit into the equation together.

She is scared because if everything it's been said it's right, then, this man, this creature whatever it is, it's the very incarnation of evil, it's sin made flesh, walking among them, and there may not be a way to stop him. The devil's son, walking among them, trying to follow his father's path of destruction, of corruption of souls, trying to bring hell on earth, through fear and chaos and death and even literally. There's everything to be scared of. But she should have thought better, because this isn't just the devil, a devil, this is Red John, and Red John has his MO, doesn't matter who he is.

He doesn't work alone.

A barrier of light appears between them, dividing the room in two, and at the same time Sally Carter is on Lisbon before she could say anything, attacking her from behind, in an amateur way but still quite efficiently, and while the gun ends on the soil, the women follow, struggling to get each of them the upper hand.  
>Jane just watches, frozen in time and space, like the moments before he shot Timothy carter in the mall, few days prior.<p>

Cho and Rigsby are outside, checking on the perimeter. Grace is,. Somehow, nowhere to be seen. Strange and Daimon are trying to bring the wall down with spells and chants, looking with fear, sweat running on their foreheads in small rivulets, while Timothy gets closer and closer to the girl, the astral alignment they talked about almost complete, as almost complete is his task, if that woman dies, when Red John will have claimed another "wife" of his own, the end of days will come for humankind.

Jane still just watches, turning his head from side to side, trying to think but almost unable to.

The moon hasn't reached its top yet and until that very moment, the darkest hour of the day, Johnny is nothing but a common mortal, not the terrible Angel of vengeance, not the Ghost Rider, made of bones and fire and power.

Sally has her hands around Lisbon's throat, and Jane can hear her, can feel it in his body almost, the life leaving her body, the woman chocking, less and less, until almost no sound leaves her mouth.

Jane watches. And his eyes fall on the gun, Lisbon's gun.

He hates guns. But he cares about Lisbon. He hates guns, but he once used one to save Lisbon. He hates guns, but he fired at Timothy Carter once, thinking of having killed him, sure of it, not feeling regret for having taken a life. He hates guns, but he promised to always save Lisbon and to not hurt her, and he hurt her because he didn't allow her to stop Carter as she wanted that time, didn't give her or the team time. The least he can do now is saving her, it's the only thing he can do.

His own words has robbed the world of Angela and Charlotte through the hands of Red John. He'll not allow one of the madman's minions to rob humanity of someone like this fiery, petite woman. She is worth living (worth living for, even), and she is strong and tenacious and brave and she cares about him even if…even if she saw the worst of him, she still cares about him, still accepts him, his Lisbon.

Seconds that feel like an eternity later, Sally collapses on top of Lisbon, open eyes, mouth wide, lips parted in an obscene way.

Jane looks at the scene, guns still in his hand, aimed at the madwoman, his blue eyes meeting Lisbon's. Lisbon who's scared, Lisbon who's on the verge of tears, Lisbon who's unable to form a single syllable, Lisbon who runs to him, and takes him in her arms, drawing soothing circles on his back through the silky material of his vest while she takes, gently but still with force, the gun away from his hand, the man not making any fuss about it, barely understanding it, barely noticing it. He just notices one thing, he just understands one thing - Lisbon is still alive and he saved her, even if he is not sure he'll be able to keep this promise for too long, if they'll not find a way to stop Red John.

The madman just chuckles, still on his knees near the body of the young woman, still unconscious, but who's showing signs of an imminent return between the living ones. He can't wait to have all of her attention, to get to his piece of art. "Well, I still have her, don't I? And you are over there, far, far away from me, unable to stop me. Has to be terrible, isn't it, Mister Jane? Being that close to your objective, but still having it out of reach. But don't worry, you'll not feel that for too long…"

"Yes, because I'll get you and I'll kill you. I'm just sorry that I'll not be able to do it as slowly as I would have liked, then, once dead because of me, you'll definitely be in my reach!" Jane is no longer talking, more like hissing, and even if Lisbon can't see his eyes, her own face still hidden in his chest, trying to get him to come back with them, in the moment, she still knows what he does look like right now.

She has seen the worst of him, and this is the worst of him, yet again, because he is like that only when the killer is involved, otherwise, she has seen him, has felt him, got to know him. He is a good man, was a loving father, a faithful husband, and he cares about people, about his family, about them, about her, as much as he cared about his real one. He is a good man, who helps people out, always had, in his unique way. But not when Red John is involved, and there's nothing she can do, just holding him, stronger and stronger, feeling his body rigid under her muscles, trying desperately to keep him there, with her, trying to make him remember where he is supposed to be, not with his body but with his heart, with his friends and his family and the ones who care about him.

"Oh, well, I guess you'll just have to wait, Patrick. I'm kind in the middle of something right now." Red John just scrolls his shoulders with complete nonchalance, barely sending them a glance. It's just an instant, but for few of them, for special people, it's enough... 


	7. Chapter Six

Disclaimers and notes: see chapter one. and thanks a lot to Lolli, who keeps leaving reviews and pms to let me know where I'm wrong! I'm promising you, I'll work on my issues with English in the future!

* * *

><p><em>Sihal Novarum Chinoth!<em> Words like from nowhere fills the air, and in a blink she appears, in a cloud of light and sparkling glitters, a creature with long, purple-violet hair, that seems somehow real, not something fake, something come out from the 80s, and she smiles, not the same smile as Red John, but a smile of victory, almost telling the man she has him. Which probably she has, considered her next move, which, for an instant, makes him livid. Because, like she appeared, she disappears, but not alone, not any longer.

Megan is special, actually, she is twice special, twice blessed by Mother nature in a certain sense, and an instant was all she needed to take in her care the unconscious victim of the serial killer, the last part of the puzzle, the last fragment needed to complete the alchemic circle and open the gates of Hell.

"Oh, smart, I like it. She looks like… a fairy? I'd say royalty, I think I smell Oberon's magic on her. I like how you think, brother, I wasn't expecting her here, I thought her kind was still secluded in Avalon…" Once again he stands, and snaps his fingers with a vigorous sound, incredible that it could come from such a small and apparently insignificant man, and as soon as he does it, the walls crushes down, and he walks, and keeps walking towards them, until he is so close they can easily feel each other breath. So close, but still out of reach. "Oh, well, I guess I'll have to do it the old fashioned way, don't I?"

Jane watches, Lisbon still trying to soothe his soul, his eyes looking outside the windows of the mansion, on the ocean, on the seaside. It's getting late, sun already gone, forgotten for few hours, but it's not apparently time yet. It's not time for the Rider to walk once again the roads of the mortal plane, not time for Jonny to turn into his alter ego, the blazing incarnation of vengeance itself. They have a plan, but it's not time yet for it, can't be time yet. They need to buy it, that time. Otherwise…

They don't even want to try to think about the other chance, what will happen if "Carter" will get to perform his last show, a show designed to get his father's attention, and to bring him there, among mortals, the end of days, the day Hell will conquer Earth first, and the Heavens later. The end of everything that it is.

"Timothy, there is still time, we can help you. Allow us to purge your soul from the dark cloak that is your father's influence upon you…" It's the first time that Stephen Strange talks, says a word since they got there, and hearing his voice, Jane loses a beat. He knows the feelings in that voice, he shared them for longer than anyone should, he still does. There's only a world to describe what the former sorcerer supreme is feeling right now, what Jane feels every day of his life from almost a decade.

Guilt.

"Oh, Stephen, why can't you and Daimon see it, don't you understand what I'm trying to do here? I'm not the one at fault … you are. All I am trying to do, is saving this world" his voice is low, but… sweet, and almost caring, and Jane freezes, a flash-back of the mall hitting the front lobe of his brain full force…The man known to humanity like Red John is right in front of them. The man who killed his family is facing him, talking with a sweet, soothing voice. And he is calling Daimon his brother.

"You followed into our father's footsteps, Timothy. I walk my own road. You want to open up the gates between hell and earth, I want to stop you and save this world." The redhead man raises his right, and a firing trident appears like thin air while he keeps talking, almost the opposite of his "brother", if Timothy Carter, or whatever this man is called, is indeed his brother.

Daimon is the one angry, the one with blazing red eyes, the one with the infernal trident, the one with the voice full of hate and rage. Definitely the opposite of Timothy, who, at the external eyes, may just look like the average man. Daimon isn't, just barely looking at him, you feel it, the danger, like pouring out of him, like you could bath in his own essence just being closer to him. It's like being engulfed by pure fear, like there's nothing to fear but just fear, and there is evil, and hate, and it's addictive, and it's scary how everybody feels attracted to him, and it's dangerous.

And he knows, and he remembers, losing Patsy to madness, losing her once and for all when she killed herself because she couldn't go on, couldn't be at his side because he was, is, Daimon Hellstorm, the Son of Hell, the son of Satan, the end of everything that is and she couldn't bear it, couldn't going on loving him without knowing if he actually had a soul, not when there was a chance that he could be the son to bring the end of all.

Timothy shakes his head, almost like he was talking with a small child, and he was trying to make him understand something logical and easy , like his own brother was nothing but a stupid. "No, No, you see, Daimon, you don't understand!" he talks with passion, a light filling his tiny eyes. There's no trace of malice in his words, that much Jane can understand in his unstable status, but this doesn't mean he isn't as mad as he always, in part, thought. It's a different kind of madness, one with a method, that's all. He isn't even plain evil. Just a small man, obsessed with some crazy scheme.

And unable to die in any way known to common, mortal men.

"Daimon, we still have time, we can still do it together, I'm sure once you'll understand what I'm planning for this world, you'll be at my side… and you too, Stephen. You used to trust me, I want you to trust me once again… we can do it, together, together we can save this world." He pauses, and walks, calm, crossing the room like they weren't even there, like that battle wasn't the final one, the one where either you win all or lose all. "Whoever, or whatever created this world, call it fate, call it case, call it God, he did it billions of years ago, and look at what humankind did. In few millennia, they took it and destroyed it. Wars, holocaust, weapons of mass destructions, famines, illness created by the man himself… and murder and hate and rape and greed and I could go on for hours! Humanity asked for it, they were the ones begging for Hell to take over, because they are not worthy populating this world, can't you see? They are not worth living! I'll open the gate for Father to come here, and then, together, we'll destroy this world, creating on his ashes our Utopia, free from your kind! I'm just doing what you taught me to do, Stephen, I'm not following Father's advice, I am freeing myself from his influence, I'm going to trick the devil himself!"

Jane looks again outside the windows, the sunset already over, the first artificial lights illuminating the landscape far away from them, but no sight of the Rider yet, even if it's already night. Lisbon keeps holding him, holding him body and soul, his anchor, and he studies Johnny's posture. The night has come, and the man is going to change, is already changing. A light smell of smoke fills their nostrils, almost imperceptible for someone who isn't looking for the signs, the biker gets rigid, his eyes turn dark, like they were getting void, and his skin turns into a deep red, almost like pepperoni, like… like he is boiling, like he is going to combust into flames.

A bike can be heard roaring outside, closer that it should be. Carter doesn't pay attention, doesn't look for the signals, maybe because he doesn't know them, or maybe simply because he doesn't care. After all, they are the first ones to not know if it will work, why should he be worried? He is the son of the Devil. Even if the Rider will bring him to hell, if he knows by now that the Rider is there among them, there's no reason to think he should be afraid. He has been there, has been birthed to go there, being an hell's spawn. Hell is a natural, hell is home for him. There's no reason for him to be afraid.

"Your Father will never allow this, and you know it. Rest assured that he is already thinking about how getting rid of you once the gate will be open. He is the Devil, and the Devil doesn't share. If you help him now, he'll destroy you like he destroyed the ones called Blackheart who come before you. If you'll be lucky, he'll give you a spot in Hell, otherwise, you'll just simply cease to exist."

He laughs, of a crazy, infernal laughter, and smoke fills completely the air, as flames erupt from the body of the ma once called Johnny Blaze, and his skin burns in the holocaust of divine power. He knees on the soil, still laughing like a maniac, and when he stands, there is no longer the man. The God-like creature walks among them, now in utter silence, just a couple of steps, huge and majestic, erect and solid and scary.

Lisbon keeps holding Jane, but, in few second's time, everything changed, and the anchor has become the one navigated unsure waters, the ones of fear, and she holds him, his shirt closed firmly in her fists, desiring to look away but unable to.

It's Jane that take hold of the situation, because he knows what Johnny is-what the creature standing in his place is capable of, and even if he saw his eyes and survived the experience, it doesn't mean that Lisbon will as well, not if it's true what he thinks she did for Bosco, covering a cold blood murder and the murderer himself, her mentor, the one who loved her and she loved just as a friend, the man she lied to in his deathbed. She may be pure, she may be a good person, the most honest one he had ever meet, but she is no perfect, and he can't risk losing her, has to keep his promise, has to save her, has to keep her safe and avoid the woman from getting hurt. She is an anchor, his anchor, and he isn't going to lose her, not this way.

He takes hold of her head, and forces Lisbon to hide it in his shirt, in his chest, forces her to close her eyes, and all the while he whispers sweet nothings into her ears, massages her back, rests small kisses on her hair, trying to calm her, trying to keep her with him, forcing her to stay there and not move, not interfere because of her curiosity, dark and scary, to look at the creature who was once man.

She can't stop holding her mother's cross, can't stop whispering invocations to her Lord. She prays, like she did just few days before, and again she fears it's the time, that she is going to see them, and she wonders, in the security of her mind, if her father is there as well, if he found peace in his death, if he is with her mother right now. Maybe they are all walking on a celestial beach along with Jane's family, watching over them all, who knows.

The one who once was Johnny keeps walking, and lifts his right hand, a single finger pointing towards the killer. Carter just chuckles again, and it's scarier than anything else- they have been right all along, he isn't scared by the Rider, by the idea of going to Hell.

Maybe he craves it.

"Oh, please, the Rider, seriously? Daddy dearest tricked the first Rider, turning him from a burner of sin of whom deserved punishment into a collector of sold souls. You, you seriously are sending a weapon of Hell against me, a son of Hell itself? You think you can stop me with him? You know you can't. You know you can't kill me, as our dear friend Patrick so nicely proved you, and you can try to send me over there, but you already know that I'll find my way back, and at the first occasion, I'll end the circle, and you'll kiss bye-bye to this plane of existence….it's a just matter of time, and all you are doing is postponing the inevitable by prolonging the suffering of this world."

"But… there is a way to finish you, right? Otherwise… why being here, all of us? You know it, I can feel it, you are not so sure of yourself any longer. You know I won, we won. You know it's the end for you. I don't care if I'll not be the one killing you, believe me, this is going to be enough, seeing the flame of life being extinguished from you, staring into your eyes while you'll burn and fade away. I want to be the last thing you'll see in that sorry excuse of a thing you dared to call life!"

"Patrick, Patrick, Patrick, you are always been a sinner, but I like you, you had style, and you could pretend with people to be better than them. And they believed you! It's what I did as well, you know? To increase my power, and to make daddy willing to help me into destroying this world, I had to collect souls, but I needed help to do so. You've been my inspiration, you helped me into forming my own cult, finding my faithful army of martyrs…"

"Uhm it make sense, you know brother? You were born from sin, and sin you looked for in your followers. You didn't burned it away, you melted it for your own good, at your own will, like dad would have done in your place. Visualize didn't take poor good souls. You took in riches and sinners, of the worst kind…"

"Brett has been a nice addiction, and a good pastor of my word. I'm sorry he'll have to die, but… you know what, truth to be told, I'm not sorry. He'll make a nice addiction to my destructive armada. Like you all will. Because, seriously, Daimon, you know you can't stop me, so, let's stop wasting time and get it done, give me the girl and once she'll be dead, I'll be nice. I'll kill you all quickly. And I'll ask daddy to not torture you too much once you'll be with him."

"We are more than you! We'll prevail, don't count us out yet!"

"Yes, well, Patrick, you see" he removes the glasses, and studies him, amused, curious, like Jane was some kind of animal. "you may be a lot, and you even may have a Ghost Rider among your ranks, but you're not enough yet. You can't divide my body from my… soul what a silly word! And you can't erase it, because you are not enough. You'd need another homo Magi among your people to do that, and, well, you don't have that one person…so, I'd suggest to surrender. I'll be nice, I promise."

Jane looks, eyes focused on his team-mates, all determined, but with a thin line of worriedness between their tense eyebrows. Is he lying, or is the truth? Is there really no way of putting an end to this?

Two voices speaking ancient and lost languages fill the room, energy passing through their very being, filling everything and everyone, leaving anyone astonished, even Carter, glasses still in hand, for once at loss of words.

Fire fills almost completely the room, separating the man from his opponents through a high wall of mighty flames, and again the shiny dust covers them with the sound of thousands of small bells, the one of thousands and thousands of butterflies flying together at the same time in the same space, the sound of their wings like it was there, like it was real.

But it's not. And they are not. It's just Megan, beautiful magical, butterfly-like wings of pure light of the same color of her hair appearing on her back, the twice blessed child, doing her thing, performing her special art of magic, scattering everyone at the different sides of the room until the enemy is distracted enough, until he can't see what they are actually planning.

Van Pelt, suddenly, makes her presence knew, and takes a couple of steps forwards the killer, looking around. Stephen, Megan, the Rider and Daimon Hellstorm are scattered all around the room, but not at the corners. At the outside eyes, it would seem casual, but it's not. Nothing is casual with them. They may be followers of the arts of magic, but nothing is given by case, by fate. Magic is just another kind of science, one just few are allowed to know, allowed to study and experiment on, and they are part of this selected clan of few, this sect, this secret circle.

Carter keeps grinning, but now his laughter gets closer and closer to the one of a maniac, of a crazy, the opposite of what he claimed, and still claims, to be. "Oh, please, a pentacle with salt crystals? What do you think I am, one of Jane's conned? You lack a fifth member to end the pentacle, and believe me just because there's the lovely Agent Van Pelt over there, I'm not gonna persuade myself to be scared of you. Accept it, you lack one of your own. I won, I win, end of the story, let's finish it!"

Jane's eyes fall upon van Pelt, her hands pressed against her heart, her gulps of fear turning into proud determination, almost scary on her always unsure features, as scary is the grin, almost wicked, on her lips.. "You sure about that, Blackheart?" she kicks, slightly, the crystal at her feet, sending it in position, and as soon as she does that, she clasps her hands together, and light appears in the tiny space between them.


	8. Chapter Seven

Disclaimers and notes: see chapter one. and thanks a lot for the kind words of the people who let me a message about this story...

* * *

><p>Jane's eyes fall upon van Pelt, her hands pressed against her heart, her gulps of fear turning into proud determination, almost scary on her always unsure features. "You sure about that, Blackheart?" she kicks, slightly, the crystal at her feet, sending it in position, and as soon as she does that, she clasps her hands together, and light appears between the tiny space between them.<p>

Light, and fire, and then metal. A sword, a sword that soon she plants in the pavement, without any effort, her eyes dark, almost black, completely, fire surrounding her like an aura, an angel of war, an heroine from some myth.

He doesn't say a word, Patrick Jane, doesn't even try. He isn't even surprised, not that much. In the last few days, he has seen too much to be still surprised. Of one thing he is now sure o, though, he'll never make fun of Lisbon for her beliefs. Or of van Pelt, whatever, or whoever, she turns out to be. Because it doesn't count who or what she is, he just cares about Red John's expression, he is delighted in his enemy's fear, bath in his agony, one of the soul and not of the body, shaking like a frightened child, scared like he knew his time has come.

The fifth Homo Magi is here, and it's a woman. It's Van Pelt. And he is scared of her like of no one else before, like he knew something about her he didn't before, something the CBI definitely doesn't know about.

"What, Blackheart, scared that I'll do to you what I did to your predecessor? You should wish for his fate, the Sorcerer Supreme and I have been compassionate when we made him pay for his actions…."

"You can't be alive! Belasco killed you! Belasco has the Soul sword! It can't be you! You are dead! You can't be Margali Szardos, you aren't her!" he falls on the pavement, scared out of his mind, panicking, and lights appears from the crystals, uniting them with the sign that once belong to white magic alone, now shared by both parts, the same image that shines in fire and energy, burning him alive, on the chest, naked, of the man known as Daimon Hellstorm, like himself was connected to the pentacle.

He may have chosen the pact of the hero, decided to walk the road of the good fight, but Daimon Hellstorm is, and remains, a child of Hell, an "Hell's son", and what is happening plays with those energies that contributed to his birth, that makes him what and who he is. Doesn't matter who he is, doesn't matter what he does, that's what he is made of, those energies are at work, and he just feels them. And, for once, he doesn't care. They can see it in his features, agonizing, in his strong behavior. He does what needs to be done, doesn't matter the price. He is ready even to lose his life, everything to stop his brother.

Survival may be a luxury he'll never have, not again, and mostly not now.

The brothers cry out in agony, while chains of fire and of living energy appear in the hands of the Rider, the so-called "Soul sword" finding its way back again in the hands of her mistress, the trident shining, lifted in the air, in the trembling hands of its guardian, all of them, a small dagger in the hands of the young faery, a small soul sword of her own, different from the one of the woman knew among them as Margali Szardos of the Winding Way, and Stephen Strange, blessed once again, just for once, with the power of the Eye of Agamotto, one of the most powerful artifacts that magic gave birth to since man walked the Earth.

Five Homo Magi, five artifacts, and Carter studies, frantically, his surroundings. He knows it, he is well aware it now, gets that he was wrong. He'll not win this one, he understands it the moment the artifacts take life, shining in a blazing glory, in all their mighty power to stop him, erase him from the world and to bring not destruction but… definitely not the world he was dreaming of, the one he wanted to built upon the ashes of the old one, of this evil, corrupted and sick reality. He wanted to be a savior, a purifier, wanted to make everything and everyone equal. But now he knows he'll not be able to, now he knows he'll go down. But he'll not go down alone, that's for sure, he'll take as many of them with him as possible. They can bet on it. Or maybe… maybe he can still stop them, he can still have time to end the ritual. He may still have time to bring Hell on Earth, literally.

He looks around, crawling to the soil, sweating, dilated pupils, heartbeat and breathing erratic, and that's when he sees it, in a corner, a gun. Lisbon's? Jane's? That sorry excuse of a woman he dared to call a wife? He doesn't know.

And he doesn't care. If not for the fact that the gun is there, inside the pentacle. And it means… it means he is the one not allowed outside. The rest…

He crawls, nobody giving him any attention, not the one needed, everybody thinking he is only a desperate trying to change his fate. And he is. Only, not like they think. And besides… besides, they are all concentrating their energies on keeping him inside, on keeping the artifacts going on…If he takes one down now, he is free as a bird.

Then… everything happens in a blur.

The sound of five shots fills the air all around them, and they all shudder, but nobody fall. Not a single one of them. There's no blood leaving their bodies. No people dying among them. Still, there's the sound of a body falling, there's blood leaving a body, there's a man losing consciousness.

Margali can't help the gasp of horror, the silent scream, as she sees Cho, with Rigsby's head on his belly, the younger cop's chest destroyed by the bullets, blood soaking wet his once immaculate white shirt.

She loves that shirt, always had, and has always been delighted he loved it as well, still did, also because…it was a gift, from her, something she took for him in the early days of their relationship. That he was still wearing it meant the world to her, and now… now their shirt is soaked wet with his own blood..

"Don't you dare, Margali, concentrate on the spell!" she hears loud and clear the orders in Daimon's words, and she knows she has to do it. If not for her or for Wayne, maybe because, with everything he is going through, Daimon is showing how brave, how strong he can be, and she doesn't want to be considered lesser than him.

Besides, if she dies, she'll not be able to help Wayne out.

The chains take life, and they hold Carter hostage, stopping him from going any further, immobilizing him in what had probably been once upon a time a torture position; the Eye flies to him, and shines in all its glory upon the body of the small and cruel man, freeing something from it- some form of energy becomes visible around the "creature", nothing human about him, and sword, dagger and trident start attacking it, the energy and not the body, hacks trespassing from side to side, the body convulsing under them, until the energy erupts is a scream of agony, nothing left of it, and, for a sec, carter open his eyes, dribble at his mouth, the body arching in the air, lifted from the soil, keeping convulsing, stronger and stronger with the onslaught of battle.

Until he stills.

For the first time, Jane dares to let it go of Lisbon, and moves, going closer and closer to the body, the shield not done for him, allowing him to pass, his companion, his trusty partner in crime, holding her breath while she looks at the man kneeling at the side of the notorious killer, fear in all the fibers of her very being.

Because this is Red John. And Jane hates Red John, turns into another man when Red John is involved, he turns into the man one should never be, and he is scary, it's scary what this monster, what this devilish creature, did to him, what he still does, hunting his life even after he has destroyed it, and Lisbon, she can't help but asking if Red John will keep torturing him even from the grave, or if… if, maybe, just maybe, they didn't kill him, because that was never part of the plan, they just wanted to do to him what it has been done by him to Kristina, and if he is still alive, and he can't defend himself, and Jane is so close…

She closes her fists, arms trembling at her sides, the breath dead in her throat. She doesn't move, and she doesn't know why. Is it because she wants to trust he'll do the right thing, God's answer to her prayers, or is it because she already knows that he'll never listen to her, that he has already made up his mind, already took a decision and will carry on, will put an end to all of this by killing the man who, by killing his family, killed him as well? Does she want and need to believe that she made it, she took control of the situation and drove him to change his mind, or that, maybe, he cares enough to not do it, not in front of her at least, because he told her, he promised her to always save her, always be there for her, never hurt her?

Were those just other empty promises in the book of Patrick Jane?

"He.. he…is dead. There's no…. breath, or beat, and I don't feel anything on his pulse point…" he turns to look at Lisbon, still standing on his knees on the cold marble pavement. His eyes are void, his voice is broken. It's not that he seems the shadow of the man he used to be, because it's not the case. He seems… different, small, unsure, and for the first time, honestly scared. And she knows why.

It's over, he didn't kill him but he is dead, and Patrick Jane has no purpose left, only chaotic thoughts are invading his mind. He doesn't know what he should do with the rest of his life, and he is scared, because he has never honestly thought about it, about a post Red John life, he has always imagined himself dead, in jail, or who know what else. A lot of scenarios have filled his mind in the long eight years following the tragic loss of his beloved ones, following that letter on the door, and he has never really thought about anything that could be like that. He is free. He is alive. And he doesn't know what to do.

He stands, slowly, and makes his way to Lisbon, his moral compass, his rock, slowly, so slowly it seems he is moving in slow motion. He stops in front of her, and studies her. She hasn't moved yet since he has gone to examine the body, hands on her face, not to feel her features like that day, when he was blind, few years prior, but to wipe out the tears, hot and burning, marking her face.

She takes a big breath as he erases them with his thumbs, a slight smile, unsure, gracing his lips. She didn't know she was crying. Crying out of fear.

He embraces her, for real, maybe for the first time in his life, his new life, after his world has ended almost a decade ago, and sobs in the crock of her neck, tears of fear, tears of relief, tears of happiness, he doesn't really know. Not now, not yet, at least.

Maybe it's just because once again he saved her, once again she is still with him, and this time there will be no Red John's servants trying to kill her because of who she is and what she is for him, even if she doesn't know it yet, even if he is the first to be unsure of his own feelings.

He forgot what it is like, to have feelings, to feel something so strong, a connection so unbreakable, for someone else- for a woman. He smiles a little, still sobbing in her jacket, wondering where this will lead him, where it will lead them. The CBI once more? A life lived together in the security and happiness of a house that will be, once again, for the first time after so long, a home as well? Or maybe, nothing will come out of this, and they'll keep being simply the amazing crime fighting duo, Lisbon and Jane, and not Patrick and Teresa.

He doesn't know, and frankly, he doesn't care too much, can't care too much. He prefers to savor the here and now, holding her strongly, inhaling her scent, so fresh, even after a fist-fight, and alive, enjoying her warm body pressed against his own in all the right places, the way she embraces him back, the tears they are both crying, him on her neck, her on his shirt.

There is just them. The rest of the world is gone, doesn't count. They don't see the Lords of the mystic arts, they don't even see their teammates. For a while for now, just for an interminable instant, it's just the two of them.

"His body probably couldn't survive without his soul, which we banished into the Light Dimension, and died as soon as it was out of reach. Or maybe… maybe, our combined spell was so strong his body want into shock, and didn't survive the experience." With these words, Stephen lets it go, and the Eye of Agamotto vanishes, ready to seek out his new master, the new worthy. They let it go. With the exclusion of Van Pelt. She keeps her rigid, strong posture, and doesn't allow herself to give up, to break down, to stop standing on her feet, facing the monster now gone, the sword still between her hands.

She does it only when she knees in the soil, taking Wayne's head on her lap.

"No, No, you stupid idiot, what have you done….." she cries silent tears, a small smile of sadness on her subtle lips, low sobs, while holding his body into her arms, their colleagues now all around them, looking with tears in her eyes, barely going on, barely resisting the need to break down in front of everyone, Daimon kneeling at her side while Megan, her beautiful wings now gone, cries all her tears, hidden behind Stephen Strange.

"Margali, you have to stop it… he is gone" the half-demon begs her, a reassuring and comforting hand on her shoulder, but she doesn't listen. If anything, her grips gets stronger, and suddenly, her eyes are wide-open, not only tears, but full of resolve, of a strength like she has never had before, not even when Blackheart took her child, a long time ago, when she wasn't Grace Van Pelt yet, when her body was another one, another one the face she wore while walking the world.

She shakes her head, stubbornly, and before Daimon could realize what is going on, before any of them could understand what is going on, the blade used to stop the monster finds somehow its way into her skin, on the palm of her right hand, and she bleeds, a deep rivulet of crimson and alive liquid leaving her skin, her being, falling into huge drops onto the soil.

Daimon does his best as soon as he sees the smears of blood, tries to stop her, but she is quicker. She puts her palm flat on the cold pavement of the mansion, where the blood fell, a light coming from the point of union, forming a circle of light all around her, all around Wayne.

She has to act now, has to be quick if she wants to have the upper hand, if she doesn't want to lose her only chance. Of saving him, of bringing him back. If she has a chance at all, that it is.

"What the hell does she think she is doing?" Lisbon somehow gets an hold of herself, and leaves Jane, running at Daimon's side, petrified, studying carefully the body engulfed by the light, the energy, understanding immediately that, whatever Grace is doing, it's not good, and can't be stopped. And that it should have never happened.

"Not hell, agent Lisbon, "HEL", with just one L, it's quite distinct" the redhead man says, frustrated, turning away as the light eats everything, and the witch disappears, along with her precious love, her former lover, words unknown whispered to the lost souls of the ones who once were. "the words your agent just said? It's a dead language…"

"I know dead languages, never heard of that before. The Doctor taught me all of them, and I didn't recognize those words. Of course, I am young, and I am just a beginner, but still, I think that…. "

"… as in, a language spoken and understood by the not living anymore, to ask for access to a "HELFOR", a ride to Hel girly girl, not a language not spoken any more" he hisses, almost fighting the need to run away. Also because, why should he stay? There's nothing left to do for Daimon Hellstorm, Red John is gone, his brother has been defeated once and for all, and it's not like he can go where "Van Pelt" is right now. "AND STOP to be such a petulant, unnerving child, for God's sake, you are royalty, behave like you are supposed to!"

"Hel, Grace van Pelt, our Rookie agent, has gone to Hel…" Jane looks around himself, running his hands through his curls like when Johnny changed in front of him, then, his eyes fall once again on Daimon. "But… I don't understand… how is it possible…" they are all in silence, eyes focused on the soil, where a tiny flame is being extinguished in the same spot where Grace was until a moment before.

"Hel with an L part, that's right, Mister Jane . Hel, is where they are going; the underworld of the Asgardian gods, where only true warriors dead in battles were and still are allowed inside. Just like probably your teammate did… or will don, since his body is no more. And the reason she has done that? Because, otherwise, Valkyrie would have come to take his spirit away and bring him to a certain part of Hel, the Valhalla, where there's not running back!" the half demon keeps hissing, and scratching the back of his head, kicks the cold and deadly gun, still there. He pauses, this time it's the half-demon's time to run his fingers through his hair. "But… there's something you are partly wrong about. It's not exactly your "rookie agent" the one who went there…."

"Margali. Red John, he…" Lisbon interrupts, joining into the conversation, a bit worried, and yes, shocked. Because one thing is believing in something, another one is seeing that something coming to life at full force right before your own eyes. "Red John called her that way, saying she wasn't supposed to be there. That she was supposed to be dead…killed by… a Bellasio?"

Strange smirks, quite happy with himself, but fascinated as well with the young man's plan. He had… considered the idea that Daimon could have called in the Rider, in honor to the their shared connection with Hell and their common past, especially when it come to fighting Black Heart, but Margali Szardos of the Winding Way… not even in a million of years he would have thought of her, especially because, last time he checked, Daimon still owed one to the woman. Now, it looks like it's two. "I assume she was one of the figures working angles for you, Hellstorm. My compliments on that, to the both of you. I didn't predicted your choice of allies, and I didn't detect her presence, even if…" he pauses, massaging his chin. "Do I have to assume it was really Grace Van Pelt the one we saw here, while Margali Szardos as we knew her is no more, killed by Belasco like your brother told us?"

"So, Grace Van Pelt does exist, that's what you are telling us? That she is just… possessed by this Margali?"

Daimon shakes his head no to Jane's question. "Grace Van Pelt was into deep with troubled people, basically, people like me and my brother. Occultism, Dark Magic, esoteric sciences… until she took the final straw. And decided to offer herself up willingly for a sacrifice to get to see what was on the other side of the rainbow. Or to get something in exchange on this side, I don't know. We haven't understood exactly yet the how or why, but, in the moment Grace Van Pelt stopped to exist on the mortal plane, the same was happening to Margali in Limbo, and somehow, they… kind of switched bodies. It was at the time that I got an hold on my brother's plans, around the same time Margali come to me to ask for help. I didn't have an answer for her, mostly because we didn't know what had exactly happened, but we agreed that Blackheart and father's plans were to be stopped at any cost, and since Van Pelt was already part of law enforcements, we decided we could take advantage of the situation, by infiltrating her in your team."

"Oh my God…" Lisbon whispers, getting paler and paler, Jane holding her, keeping her up for her shoulders, grabbing her so strongly he suspects there will be bruises, his own mind going through the same road as her own, his heart suddenly filled with a brand new appreciation for the redhead agent who, without knowing, basically saved his own life. "That's why I'm still alive. The doctors, they said there was so much blood, and that… there was no way to know how I managed to survive such a nasty wound. But… there is, isn't it? Because she did it, she healed me…" memories fill her mind, as she sees it, every single second of what has happened back there in that place, that secluded cabin where Madeline Hightower was held along with her family, where she almost found her own death. She remembers everything, and sees everything with a new pair of eyes, including Grace, kneeling at her side, touching the wound gently, almost skimming over the tissue, and… whispering something. Something she tough she couldn't understand due to shock or Grace's low voice. They told her there was no way she could have survived with such a blood loss. They told her there was no explanation, that the wound was almost inconsistent, and now, she knows why. She wasn't meant to survive. She did because… she did because of magic… a charm performed by her own agent, Grace, Margali, or whatever her name is, whoever she may be.

Her eyes meet Daimon's, and the half demon just nods in understanding. "Damn woman, if she is in a bad mood over there, the redhead is worst than dead…" he mutters, looking at nothing in particular.

He hopes they didn't hear what he just said. Because if he is right, it means that they haven't just lost one team-mate, but two. 


	9. Chapter Eight

Disclaimers and notes: see chapter one. and thanks a lot for the kind words of the people who let me a message about this story...

* * *

><p>Meanwhile somewhere else, the woman the world knows as Grace Van Pelt looks around herself, seeing only a place that remembers her of the Middle Earth from the Lord of the Rings, a movie that, strange enough and contrary to common belief, Wayne liked, and made her saw more than a couple of times. Good times, she remembers them, every single second, and a tiny smiles appears on her delicate features, just to be erased as soon as she realizes it's there in the first place. It's not time for smiling. Nor this is the place.<p>

She sobs, instead, desperate, clinging to the bloody body like for dear life, begging to have him back or either dying with him, and that's when she feels it, the presence at her back.

"Witch, your cry was heard, but believe me, you have made a huge mistake by daring to come here, uninvited, in my realm."

Margali lets it go of the body, and, standing strong, turns, and sees her, standing tall in the air, huge, almost a giant but not one, dressed with a long, green and black dress, barefoot, eyes glistening in the dark, ravenous hair floating at her side, green ribbons wore between her long, dark, silky tresses, ravens at her side dancing in the air like elegant and delicate doves.

The goddess' eyes falls upon the dying body of Rigsby, and she grins, not out of amusement, but mere disgust. Or maybe, she just doesn't care. He is a human, she is the Death goddess, it means that she is superior to him in everything, and he has to follow her rules and her whishes- his body may belong to this redhead, but his soul is definitely hers, hers and of the beautiful Brunilde, Valkyrie, ready to call the man at her side once his spirit will be set free from the prison that has been his mortal body, ready to bring him to Valhalla, the final home of the fallen heroes, of the most noble warriors, the one who fell for a noble cause.

Because that's how Wayne Rigsby found his death, fighting the good fight, fighting to keep others safe, fighting without thinking about his own survival, for love and out of duty and nobility of the soul and bravery.

"That's why you have come here to my realm and summoned me, for a dying mortal? I expected more from the one who once ruled over Limbo, mistress of the Winding Way."

Margali doesn't look at the goddess, instead, comes back to the side of her beloved, touching him, gently, her touch a mere ghost upon the ghostly skin.

She cries, like she has never cried before.

"I ask of you, Death Goddess, please save him…."

"Nay. If you wish to save a soul, then you must give me something in return. It's something your people got to know as the equivalent exchange, give me something in return from his soul, and he'll be allowed back among the mortals. This is what I'll grant you." The goddess smiles, not evilly. There's no evil in her, she just doesn't care. She is beyond that. "So, tell me, how are you going to repay me, offering me your own soul?"

Margali nods, and looks at her hands, trembling in front of her, her bloody palms, soaked in the crimson vital essence of Wayne and her own, sacrificed to bring her there, and closes her eyes, concentrating, reflecting, making up her mind.

She knows what she'll give up. She knows it's what she is supposed to give up. And, strange enough, she doesn't care. Not any longer, at least, once upon a time, maybe…. But not now. Now she is a different person, and not because of the body she is currently inhabiting.

She is a different person because of them, because of him. And he is worth it, every single second of it, she knows. That is something she can't regret, will not regret, never, ever, because he is too important, for her and for the rest of the word as well, because if he did save her life, one who didn't want saving, wasn't worth it, what could he do with so many others? He saved her, heck, he even saved his father, as much as the man hurt him, keeps hurting him.

Wayne is worth saving, worth the sacrifice. A sacrifice she is not just willing to make, but ready, and happy, to go through. Everything to save him, to have him back in her life, doesn't matter how, to have him back into the world.

"The payment is here, right before our own eyes, death goddess, and it's enormous. I'll not give you my blood, nor my soul, but it's a part of me that you'll gain, nevertheless, a part that many before you tried to gain trough mischief and war, your beloved brother Loki included." She lifts her chin, challenging, almost it wasn't a God she is facing, but just another human, almost like she didn't have Wayne's life in her hands. She knows he shouldn't do it- Hela is powerful, and as much as powerful she is herself, she is no god, and could be easily wiped out of reality if the Asgardian thinks so.

The goddess smiles, curios, walking around them, still on the soil, and studies them. Humans, mortal or not, are always amusing, and interesting and… she isn't sure weird would be the right word to describe them. They are somehow… surprising, and, yes, irrational. Like Margali, giving up who she has always been, whom she has been for over 500 years, to be with a mortal?

She is finally starting to understand why his majesty Thor find them so much fascinating and entertaining. "So, are you going to demote yourself to a mere mortal, who'll never be able to use magic ever again? Are you going to renounce to your status as a Goddess yourself, a mistress of the underworld like myself, just to be with him?"

Margali shakes her head, but between her tears there's a smile hidden, one of relief. "I've been a human right from the start, I'll not be demoted by this. But… I'm ready to give up on this. Sometimes… I think magic never did me any good. I was one of the most powerful magical being of my world and I ruled the underworld reign of Limbo alongside your kind, but still this didn't help me to save my own son. I couldn't even save this girl, couldn't bring back Kristina Frey when Blackheart turned them into Golems. – she stands, and yet again she challenges the mystical entity, majestic as never before, proud and sure. - In the name of magic, I made mistakes, I failed my world and I failed my beloved ones, the ones I was supposed to protect.."

"Are you sure you are ready to give it up?" She closes her eyes, clasping her hands with a powerful sound, and then parts them, a light engulfing the tiny space between her bloody palms, and then, where there was light, there is fire, and where there was fire, there's metal.

A sword, the soul-sword, the key to her power, the key to all the power of the Winding Way, now that she is the last embodiment of that magic, the last one of her people, raised a gipsy to escape from village to village, scared of being found, of becoming one of those lost witches. Lost to death.

"I'll not be a witch any longer, but I'll have him, at least. And all the people I got to care about. It doesn't matter if he'll never forgive me because I lied, I don't care. I just want for him to walk his world again, as a living, mortal, human being."

Hela doesn't waste previous time, she knows something precious when she has it, when she even just sees it, maybe it's the prerogative of being a goddess, or maybe it's because she is the goddess of the Underworld, and the underworld isn't exactly the best place in the whole universe. She knows the sword is precious, because it will gave access to the Limbos' domain, and because it could come handy one day. Who knows.

She takes it as soon as Margali gets on her knees to offer it to the Queen of the dead ones.

"Good answer, Margali SZardos of the winding way, you just convinced Death to change her mind" she skims the blade, stings her own hand with the point of the artifact, making divine dark blood, almost as dark as night itself, to bleed out from the injury. She studies again the artifact, then look at the lovers on the soil of the devastated dominion of death.

She silently makes a sign to Valkyrie, hidden in the distance, letting her know her services aren't needed right now, and then, she knees on the soil, close to Wayne's body, and parts his lips, her bloody finger skimming over them, and a single breath, shiny, like a golden river, like liquid amber, leaves her own body to become one with the injured mortal.

He coughs, his eyes still closed, his breathing irregular. But alive, and in the process of getting better.

The death goddess cups his face with her hand, and she smiles, an occurrence Margali has never witnessed in over 500 years of life, not like that, at least, because this isn't about satisfaction or getting the upper hand, this is about… happiness, and a feeling of completeness she has never felt before, the same emotion the Goddess is probably feeling right now. Or is it… envy, because the Queen of Limbo were ready to sacrifice everything to gain the love of her man, while Hela has never been considered worth the attention of her master, the Mighty Thor, God od Thunder?

Light engulfs them as Hela keeps smiling, and Margali knows it, she knows it's the end, at least of what she used to know, what she thought was her world, nothing will be the same any longer. Blackheart is dead and she has lost her powers, Red John is gone and who knows what Jane will do with the rest of his life.

But she has a sudden feeling, strange in its own nature, something she can't describe properly, birthing right from the deepest corner of her very soul. She knows everything will work out just fine. Blackheart and his alter-ego Red John are gone, they'll kill no longer and justice has been served in the only possible way, she just lost her powers but she doesn't care, and, if he'll try hard enough, she knows that Jane will find in himself the strength to move on, now that the monster is gone, and that could finally have his heart's desire, if she hasn't bee fooled by his tricks.

But, at the end, this doesn't matter, not so much. It matters that they won, and that he is safe, and alive, doesn't matter where, it just matter that he is still himself, body and soul, the same man she fell in love with, the same man who made her reevaluate her life and her decisions and even her path.

Light engulfs them, and for the last time a pentacle burning all around them emits energy that fills her very soul, her whole being, with warm and sensation and everything in between, something no one can understand and no one can describe. She closes her eyes, and she cries.  
>She isn't regretting this, will not regret this, but she made a choice, and she has been that way since the day she was born. She just will miss it, from time to time, while she'll get used to be a mortal, for the first time, and she'll get used to have this body, not forever, but just as long she'll be allowed to live and walk the Earth as Grace Van Pelt. A mortal body, a frail body, a body that can get older. Maybe at the side of a man. Maybe at Wayne's side, if he'll forgive her for the lies and for the hurt.<p>

As she has been filled by magic, magic leaves her vanishing like in thin air, like fairy's dust, and when she opens her eyes yet again, she is again with them, the team, Daimon and Stephen and Megan, the Rider gone, in search, probably, of a soul ready to be punished, pure evil incarnated. Will she become one of his chosen targets? Will he condemn her to hell for all eternity, for all the wrong and all the mistakes and all the pain she brought in this life in all her incarnations?

Her tears wet Wayne's head, still in her lap.

As soon as she feels him stirring back to life, she loses the man, and runs past everybody of them, with tears wetting her young, mortal, frail features. 


	10. Epilogue

Disclaimers and notes: see chapter one. and thanks a lot for the kind words of the people who let me a message about this story...

* * *

><p>Sitting on the seaside in front of the mansion where Red John found his final rest, Grace-Margali- embraces her legs, face hidden between her knees, crying, repeating in her own mind the same words again and again.<p>

She hates Daimon for having asked her to do this. She hates herself because she has accepted, she hates Grace, the real one, the one who lost her soul leaving just a living empty shell behind, for having embraced the dark side so fully to dedicate her life to obscure forces behind reason, and she hates herself because she did the same thing when she was barely a child herself, sacrificing what she used to hold dearest, her sons and her daughter, to become the sole ruler of Limbo and mistress of the Winding Way.

She sacrificed the life she could have had with Kurt, Amanda and Stephen, Stephen, the oldest but more naïf, who craved her love and attention, who felt so alone and so misunderstood to fall victim to the devil's machinations, turned into a devil himself, a monster body and soul, a monster so powerful that only the living most powerful sorceress was able to stop him, killing and destroying him. His own mother.

And now… now she doesn't have her children any longer, she doesn't have her magic any longer, and she doesn't have her… whatever the CBI was for her any longer. She probably doesn't have Wayne as well any longer. And, it should be right, it is right. She doesn't deserve him. Wayne is a good man, a pure heart, so pure that Hela accepted something so simple as her magic to bring him back, to avoid Valkyrie from accompanying him to Valhalla. He is a pure of heart and she has lied to him for… for years. About her heritage, about her magic, about why she couldn't be with him, why she broke up in the first place, and why she decided to date and then marry Craig.

She has never lied to him about her feelings, though. That's the only thing she has always been honest with him about, her love for him. Because there are few things she can't fake, facts she can't forget, like that first day, sitting awkwardly at her desk, unused to the feeling of being yet again a mortal and one that cute, and then, this young man, approaching her, her eyes meeting the most gorgeous ones she had ever met in thousands of years of life. Here he was, Wayne, introducing himself, dark, tall, handsome, and sweet and caring. She remembers him, shaking her hand, the silk skin of her, young and not used to any hard work, meeting the rough and callous of his own, the electricity almost visible right from the start. She still smiles, remembering that she blushed. And Margali Szardos had never blushed before…. But Margali Szardos had never been in love before.

She has loved her husband, Stephen and Amanda's father, Sergey, of a tender love, but their love was more sibling-ish then passionate. After all, he was the one her parents took for her, she never chose him, that was how it was back when she was younger, and she got to be quite fond of him, and it hurt when he died, but… but it didn't break her heart, didn't make her whish to go to Hel herself to save him. But for Wayne? She did it for him, and she'd do it again and again, even if he was no longer hers.

Even if he is no longer hers, because she may not be the mistress of his heart any longer, but he is still the sole master of her own. Because, as much as she has tried to fight it, she has fallen for him, and she can't do anything about it. She fell for him that day, years prior at the CBI, and she is still in love with him, even after years that they are no longer together.

Pathetic.

She finally allows the tears to run free, albeit silently, collapsing onto the sand, her body caressed by the soft and chilly waves of the oceanic water, crying for what it is, crying for what it was and for what it has never been and what it will never be…. her children, now adults, grown up without a mother, Stephen, lost forever, Grace, who renounced to her soul and her life to be allowed into the devil's arms, all the life destroyed by Blackheart, his victims, the ones who survived, like Jane, the fallen ones, like Bosco, the lost souls, like Rebecca and Craig, and yes, she cries for herself as well, trapped into a body that doesn't belong to her with no way out, in a life that doesn't belong to her, her magic gone, lost forever, the last of her people, and Wayne and Craig… she loved (loves) one, liked the other, but is still suffering for both, even if Craig…

And now, she has probably lost them both, Craig to death, a bullet fired by herself to save Madeline Hightower and her family and Lisbon, and Wayne because of herself. Because of her lies. Because she has lied to him almost the whole time, about everything but one thing—her feelings, she has never lied about her love for him.

"Margali?" she jolts, breathing dying in her throat as she lifts her head, and here he is, Wayne, standing still at her side, longing and desperation and sweetness in his warm eyes, like liquid amber.

"Well, as the others probably told you…Right soul, wrong body" she smiles a little, blushing, hiding yet again her face, this time with the cascade of her red hair, unable to move as he sits at her side, a warm smile gracing his features. She had forgotten this side of him, but has decided just now she'll never do this mistake again, she'll imprint this image, so beautiful and happy, in her memory palace for the rest of her days. "What?"

His smile deepens, and he almost laughs, grinning as he traces her features with a single finger. He chooses to not answer her with words, preferring to take action, something he should have done a long time before, maybe right from the start.

His lips find her owns, and suddenly she is on her back, Wayne's weight, his body covering her own, her arms around his neck on their own volition, his hands at work rediscovering her body, her curves, her skin, feeling her up, both busy making out like teenagers in hormonal crisis while the chilly oceanic water of the early morning tickles their bodies making them adhering in all the right places like there was almost no fabric at all.

"I can't… we shouldn't…. I'm not… I'm not her, and I…" she cries, her tears weeping his skin as she breaks free from his passionate kisses, trying to put, and maintain, some distance between them, her arms keeping him in his place, palms warm on his chest, a nice contradiction with the cold and wet clothes. He stays where he is, and stares at her in the sweetest way possible, like… intrigued, or busy studying her.

And then, he laughs.

He laughs, and nuzzles her neck, her hair, his voice a happy whisper, like honey, sweet and tender and happy and cheerful, in one word, just Wayne. "Oh, silly, silly, silly woman… how can't you see it? How couldn't you see it? It has never been about Grace. I never met her. I met you. I loved you. I love you!"

"Even if I know I'll never be able to fully forgive myself and I'll never be worth your forgiveness for the pain and the lies you had to endure because of what I am?"

He takes her chin between two fingers, lifting it so that she could see in his eyes and right through him, their faces just a breath away. He wants her to know why he is doing it, why he is willing to give her as many chances as she'll need, and he needs to make her understand it's not because of what she did for him, but for so many reasons…. "I love you because of who you are, Margali, and because of what you are willingly to endure for me and for the others, for the ones you love…. And for people you never met and never will…I don't care if your name is Margali or Grace, you can be whoever you want. But I need you to be mine."

She smiles, tears in her eyes shining in the first light of the early morning sun.

"Even if I am a few centuries old former immortal, who has been a gipsy for the majority of her life, was a witch and ruled a dark dimension and had 3 children?" she pouts, faking a shyness she is far from feeling right now.

He nods with nonchalance, smiling, and closes the distance between them, kissing her with a smile, a smile on her lips, a smile on his ones as they smile and laugh and kiss tenderly like youngsters, and when the sun is fully up, they are still busy with their fervent activities, busy committing each other to memory, making new ones and remembering old ones, remembering the feeling of owning someone else and being owned in return , getting lost in them, melting into them.

On the terrace, Jane studies them, envies them, the weight of loss and failure, of that missing piece, that hole in the heart that will never be filled completely ever again relieved only by the warm and compassionate hands on his arms, the chest pressed against his back in a manner that has nothing to do with sexual intimacy but everything with being comfortable around each other, the chin on his shoulder, the nose nuzzling his neck, the raven hair caressing his face. His rock, his anchor, his light at the end of the tunnel, a pure heart, maybe not as pure as the one of the man saved from Hel but even purer in his eyes, his shoulder to cry on, to rely on, the closest he has to family, the only one he fully considers family, his hope for the future. Lisbon.

"Looks like the formerly known as Margali Szardos of the Winding Way has already decided what she'll do with the rest of her very mortal and human life…" they both turn in direction of the voice, right at their back, and here he is, Jonny, strolling towards them with utter and complete nonchalance. Human again, behaving like the last few hours never happened, like they never saw him like he.. like that other part of him truly is. "C'mon Paddy, I told you the Rider usually works at night, and, anyway, where were you when I was explaining that I've learned to control it? When there's no pure evil and sin incarnated looking for tasting vengeance, that it is"

He gets closer and closer, until he is at their side, his back against the balustrade, grinning and looking mischievously at the duo, laughing behind his teeth, his eyes focused on the blushing face of Agent Lisbon, who lets it go physically of Jane, like the man that hides behind the blazing skull of the Ghost Rider could burn her through Jane's clothes even like a human. "I'm sorry, Teresa, but I don't usually bite. Of course, if you asked me to, I could make an exception for you, but only this once; no, I'm not the Rider right now and no, I'm not burning of some kind of invisible fire; I've never met God but I'd say he exists, considering that I met the Devil and that I happen to be a fallen angel incarnated, and yes, as far as I know, when I'm Johnny Blaze, I can die, since the burden of the Rider can be passed, but whatever it would allow it or not, it's a mystery even for me, sweetheart"

She blushes even more, and hides at Jane's other side, her hand on his shoulder, gripping it, feeling under her fingertips his tense but somehow well defined muscles relaxing. She wonders how Blaze did it, reading her mind like that, like Jane does all the time, annoying her and getting the mantle of thorn in the side... Is he like Jane, or did he simply took few of his tricks while they grow up together in the carnie? Or, among the other things, being the Ghost Rider makes him a psych? Because, after this night, she is ready to believe to them as well. Or maybe he is an empathic, or a telepath?

Or maybe the consultant has always been right, and she is simply translucent, so translucent that Blaze doesn't need to be a mentalist to read her like an open book.

"Teresa, sweetheart, if you don't mind, I'd need a moment alone with our boy wonder Paddy here, pretty please…." She blushes when she realizes Blaze is asking and flirting with her. She wonders why- she knows she is not exactly the kind of woman that makes heads turn when she walks, so, is it to annoy her, annoy Jane, or just because he is a flirt and he thought she is worth his attention? Definitely to annoy Jane. And why Blaze thinks Jane could be annoyed by someone flirting with her, is beyond her comprehension.

Fact is, when she turns to ask Jane if he is ok with her leaving, she sees it, with a smile of triumph she can't even try to hide. He is annoyed by the whole thing. And she doubts he can understand how good it feels for her knowing such a detail, that when men focus on her he is annoyed and maybe, just maybe, a little… jealous, even.

"Sure, I have to go to talk with the others anyway, trying to build a valuable story to why we have a dead body. I think I'll ask Strange if he can…do whatever he does to make it look like heart attack. An heart attack would explain the lack of bullets, and we don't have bullets. Not on him, anyway. Well, we don't have any fatal bullet fired at Red John, at least…"

They look at her leaving, in complete silence. Lisbon is no longer at hearing distance when they resume their speeches.

"You know, Paddy, I think you should stay where you are right now" the biker states calm, crossed arms, like he was talking about the weather and not life-altering decisions.

Jane mimics his long lost friend's positions, and laughs a little of a nervous laughter, turning then sideway to have a good look at the expression of the Zen-ish biker, always calm and reasonable in this new version of his. He finds Johnny is, indeed, serious, in his predicament, and his eyebrows reach his hairline, and all he can do is looking at the other man dumbstruck. "With all due respect, but I'm not sure that spending the rest of my life in the same place where my nemesis found his ultimate death thanks to the combined efforts of the banished from Hell son of Satan, the fallen form grace angel of vengeance, the deposed Sorcerer Supreme, a princess Faery and the soul of a sorceress trapped into the body of a believer that happens to be Grace van Pelt… well, I'm not the sanest person of this planet, but I'm not such a masochist either…"

Blaze stares at him, unbelievably, feelings going from annoyed to plain disappointed. Because that's dear old Paddy here, and dear old Paddy isn't getting it. Or maybe he doesn't want. Or maybe he is just faking it to annoy Johnny for having annoyed him with the whole flirting with Lisbon thing.

Or maybe he is still in shock and it's the shock talking. Even if the biker would prefer having him annoyed. It was his plan, after all, flirting with the sexy brunette dear old Paddy is so fond of to annoy him and make him see things in a different light.

"I'm talking about your soul, you dumbass"

"Johnny, you disappoint me! Don't you remember, I don't believe in things such as souls and psychs!"

"And yet, in the last few days, you meet two sons of the devil and the human incarnation of an angel. And you were the one telling me you'd never made fun of dear sweet Teresa ever again because she does believe.."

"Uh, yeah, well, I said so, so I guess you kind of have a point…." Jane laughs a little, with his lips, with his eyes, with his heart. It's just been few hours, but he can already feel it, a bit at least, the weight being lifted from his shoulders, a tiny piece of that hole closing, slowly, but closing nevertheless. It's good, being able to laugh for real again, being able to be happy for real again, it's good being back… or being a brand new person, because he has never been like this, not back then, not…before. "So, what's that, God's advice for the rest of the days of my sorry excuse of a life?"

"Ah, I told you we never met. Why bother, with the Rider being judge, jury and executioner? Which brings us back to the main topic, why you should stay here, with them" he pauses, and turns to face his longtime friend, suddenly once again serious. "Patrick, the Ghost Rider looked right through your eyes, and you passed his judgment. I know what you think of yourself, I know you think you were evil and you never fully changed, but you are wrong. I saw you back then, and I see you now. You've never been a saint, but I know evil, and evil you are not. You are human, and there's not a person alive who doesn't have sin in them…. But not everyone deserve punishment. You didn't, you still don't, and you know why?"

"Because I'm not evil but just a plain sinner?"

The other nods. "Yep, and because you changed, man. You walked the path of sufferance in life, Paddy, you damned yourself on this Earth, and left that world of destruction at your back with their help, walking at her side and allowing her to fight with you by seeing who you were and turning into what you could be for her."

He stills, rather uncomfortable, hands in his pockets, eyes focused on Teresa, on Lisbon, just few meters away from him, inside the hall of the rich mansion by the sea, right before the balcony, busy talking with Cho, Strange and Megan, probably trying to figure out a way to make it look like differently form what it is in truth, a matter of occultism.. "I didn't do it just for her, you know? I did it… well, you said it yourself, I'm not evil. And change is good, was good for me"

"Oh, yeah, and hot lady cop over there has nothing to do with your sudden crisis of conscience…" ha leaves out a little suppressed laughter, probably to try to make a point with Jane. "Face it, Paddy, you may have gone to them because of Red John, but you've stayed with them, and you've gotten to care about them, see them as your family. Her in particular."

They friendly and brotherly banter. He has missed it, Jane realizes. He has it, of course, with Lisbon, but with Johnny is different. Because, in some ways, Johnny is just like him, they are brothers, not in blood but because of where life drove them to, places and things and people. They shared a lot when they were younger, both living in the carnie, and still now, after so long, there are things that keep together, in a way neither of them have ever foretold or imagined….like Blackheart's presence in their lives.

There's definitely no such a thing as coincidences.

"Meh, I may like to spoil her from time to time, but not everything I do is to make her smile or put, you know. Even if I have to admit that she has the cutest pout…"

"Well, then maybe I should try to convince her to give me a chance? She seems to like quite a lot us carnie people, and I'm pretty sure she likes me in particular, she gave me such hot looks…. Wonna see if I'm right?"

"Nah, she has too much class for a brute like you. Besides, why should such an angelic creature like Teresa Lisbon accompany herself with a man who basically looks like a devil? She needs a gentleman, quite old fashioned, with class and style and extremely good looking but slightly dangerous…"

"Well, Strange is a good man, I think he could make her happy. If he breaks up with his nurse girlfriend, that it is." The man who is host to the Rider laughs, and doesn't even stop when his friend hits him playfully on the shoulder, if only it gets better, the laughter intensified by Jane shaking his hand, slightly hurt after having forgotten the metallic shoulder-pads.

But it ends, as suddenly as it started, and once again is Zen-ish Johnny to regain his composure first. Only, this time, as he talks, he isn't facing Jane, but is looking at his own feet, almost… scared, serious. And when he talks, he does such using Jane's first name, fully, something that doesn't go unnoticed, and that hides a deep meaning. "Patrick, I looked at you when I was the Rider, and if you are still here, it's because he has judged you not worthy punishment and vengeance. Next time I'll see you, if I'll see you again, I want for things to be still this way, ok? So make me a favor, and stay here for a while, at least try to figure out what you want to do with the rest of your life before running to hide in some corner at the other side of the world. She is a good friend, I'm sure she'll help you figure out everything in due time, and she is a believer, which is never bad. Who knows, maybe a bit of faith could work miracles for dear old Patrick Jane…."

He walks away, without saying a proper goodbye, leaving Jane's life just as he entered it once again, in the blink of an eye.

The mentalist just nods, even if his friend is no longer there at his side, maybe just to convince himself that this is what he needs, the right thing to do. He watches around himself, breathing in and out, his eyes focused on the people all around him, Johnny, just a silhouette close to his bike, Rigsby and Grace- Margali, he corrects himself, smiling a little – kissing and hugging on the warm sand in front of the ocean, Cho busy talking with Strange and the young fairy, and Teresa, there with them, her eyes, though, turned to look at him, a warm crimson smile gracing her gentle features.

He smiles, of a not so secret smile, so happy he is close to tears, tears of happiness for the first time in his life. He runs his hands through his rebellious curls, and then strolls towards the cop he knows so well after almost a decade at her side, Lisbon already walking towards him with questioning eyes, ready to meet him halfway like she has done so many other times in the past.

Sunrise is completely over, a new, bright and cloudless day has finally started, blessing them with warm rays caressing their skin. The night, and the nightmare, are finally over, freeing them from the prison that has took them all prisoners for way too long. It feels like the first day of his life, and maybe it is, because that's the first day he has as a fully free man.

This simple yet incredible fact isn't as scary as he has always thought it would have been, and for the first time in almost a decade, Patrick Jane craves a bed, and a peaceful sleep. Now he can close his eyes, sleep, rest and maybe even dream, dream of beautiful and happy things that were and of things yet to come.

And the possibility of crossing roads with the spirit of vengeance and punishment again doesn't pass through his mind, not once. After all, Johnny told him so as well- these people are good for him, she is good for him, and letting it go of them, of her, of the here and now, isn't part of the aforementioned things to come he is seriously thinking about- and he is thinking about stopping wasting his life trapped into a sorry excuse of an existence, he is thinking about getting on with it, finding a woman to love (aka convincing a certain dark haired agent to allow him to wine and dine her, and maybe even seduce her over a meal, as sophomoric as it may be, if necessary) and starting a family with her, not forgetting about the past, but honoring it, not leaving his old family behind but adding to it.

The only thing that delusional freak of Carter has been right about. 


End file.
